


In The Deep

by QueerCrusader



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Depression, F/M, Heavy Angst, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, but all these pairings play a pretty major role, i couldn't even tell you if this has a happy end, just expect a fucktonne of emotions, usually i try to only tag the main endgoal pairing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25609468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerCrusader/pseuds/QueerCrusader
Summary: Imagine if James and the Hamiltons got their chance, ever so briefly, to follow their passions, their plans. There is no argument, no politics, no ferrying people away in the dead of night. Instead, as they sail towards hope, the pardons still in hand, the Navy brutally take Thomas' life under bright daylight, in the middle of a vast ocean, and dump his body overboard.Thomas is dead.They were so close, they were on their way to Nassau, young and naïve and full of hope and determination, and then England saidno, and ripped Thomas straight from James' hands.But James doesn't dono. He is determined, he will undo this, he will dive down into the Underworld itself if he must to get Thomas back. Except nothing is ever as easy as that, and James finds himself faced with choices beyond anything he could have ever imagined possible. For he is not the first to try convincing the Guardian of the Dead to release a lover, and he won't be the last. And the harder he tries, the more entangled he finds himself in the deep...
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw & John Silver, Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Madi/John Silver, Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Miranda Barlow/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 11
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired by [this post](https://queer-crusader.tumblr.com/post/622461755705196544) on tumblr. I've taken liberties with it, changing and dropping some roles and going beyond how the original myth goes, but I hope you guys like it. Now beware, this fic is like, angsty as FUCK. With some of those good ol’ philosophical discussions and a lot of emotions. I hope that doesn’t deter you, but knowing this fandom, I think there’s a pretty strong audience for it haha.
> 
> Anyway, here’s my [tumblr](https://queer-crusader.tumblr.com/). Feel free to yell at me about the show (or anything really) there, equally, feel free to leave comments on this fic. They make my life, for real.
> 
> PS: This fic originally included silverflint. It has now been edited to no longer lead to that as a romantic pairing. If that's what you originally followed it for, please be aware of this ❤

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _You fumble through the dark_  
>  _However wide and deep and far my dear_  
>    
> _\- King_ , The Amazing Devil

_He will be prosecuted_ , the voices whisper in James’ ear, the only clear sound reaching him as everything else is muffled by the water. _Prosecuted and pursued. They will get to him. They will be the end of him._ He beats out another stroke, diving deeper. His arms ache and his chest is cramping, small but precious bubbles of air escaping from his nostrils, but he holds on, keeps his breath. He will need air soon or he will drown, but at this point, he has accepted that possibility as nothing but a shortcut.

 _They will be the end of him._ You _will be the end of him._

No matter how deep he dives, he cannot get away from the voices. The memories.

* * *

_“James, this is insane,” Miranda pleaded as he resurfaced, gasping for breath. “Please stop. I can’t – I will not lose you too!”_

_“You won’t,” James insisted – snapped. He’d become brusque, curt, rude. He decided to ignore her wince. “I need to do this. I can’t go long enough yet. Not deep enough.”_

_“What on Earth is this for?” Miranda asked. “What could you possibly need to dive to the bottom of the ocean for?”_

_“Not the ocean,” James had answered. He pushed the wet strands of hair from his face before taking another deep breath. Miranda pleaded, protested, but he was no longer listening as he went under again._

_If he wanted to do this, he had to train._

* * *

The cenotes of the Yucatán Peninsula are _deep_. Their underground cave system is vast and complex, with many interconnecting tunnels. There is no map, no-one who is skilled or mad enough to explore them. Only the local natives have some sense of knowledge, and many avoid delving too deep on account of the ancient stories. Long before the Spanish or English even set foot on this land, the Maya called some of these gaping, waterfilled holes in the jungle the entrances to Xibalba. Their Underworld.

The cenote James has chosen is sacred to the locals, and he had felt a pang of guilt upon entering it, but he quickly shoved down the emotions. He is here for a reason, one that he will put above morals. This is the closest he can get to the myth and magic he read about what felt like years ago. It is magic he needs now. And when he saw the scattered bones of the long-forgotten dead – sacrifices or burials, he didn’t know – at the bottom of the first cave, he knew he had chosen right.

That had been hours ago.

He now swims through constantly curving tunnels, some only as wide as his torso. He has to drag himself through those by the worn edges of his fingernails and prays the soft stone doesn’t collapse on top of him. The only reason he has made it this far is because of irregularly scattered air pockets saving him in the nick of time.

He just manages to squeeze through another passage when suddenly, the space opens up around him. It’s an underground cave; one with a large dome above him plenty of air, and even a dry bank for him to climb up on and rest. He does exactly that, heaving himself out of the water with shaking arms and a grunt. When he rolls onto his back, his thin clothes soaked, he almost instantly falls asleep.

* * *

_There were screams in his ears, his own screams, he vaguely realised, mixed with Miranda’s. He scrambled, beat around him like a feral animal, but they held him back, held him back as Thomas lay dying, bleeding out in front of him, and Miranda was crying, he couldn’t hear her, wouldn’t hear it, needed to get to Thomas. But they had gotten to him first. They had found out, chased him into his death, and James had to watch helplessly as he was held back. He just wanted to save him, hold him, something, ANYTHING –_

* * *

It is impossible to know how long he has been there; there is no light this far down, and he has lost all sense of time. _Should have brought something to eat_ , he thinks briefly as he sits up, before snorting. Of all the things to think of when preparing to dive into the Underworld, supper seems incredibly trivial.

He’s shaking, he realises. His clothes have barely dried, and the air in the cave is completely stagnant. He wonders how long it has been trapped down here. If he can even imagine time stretching back that far, all the way to Genesis.

He’s tired, hungry, and probably hypothermic, but he has to keep going. Perhaps the swimming will warm him up.

* * *

James hasn’t seen daylight for what feels like forever. He’s gotten used to the dark down here, comfortable in his new blindness. All he needs is touch, and the sense that he’s heading down. He knows it’s near impossible to tell which way is up when swimming in the dark, but he knows. He senses it. He senses the dark, the depths. Like there is a tie connecting him to Thomas, beckoning him down. He just has to keep swimming.

Three large caves have saved him on the way down. He had to take a break of several hours at one point, when he suspected a rainstorm occurred high above him, washing down dirt and debris and loosening the soil of the walls surrounding him. He’d let them crumble, waited on a ledge until he felt it safe again to swim. He had taken off his clothes in one of these caves. They wouldn’t dry anyway whenever he took a break, and the wet cloth clinging to him would only cause health issues. Besides, they weighed him down, snagged on rocks. Down here in the dark, there is no-one to see him. He is safe in his nakedness. There are no prying eyes, no social norms to shame him into conformity.

He often thinks that perhaps he’ll find Thomas in one of these caves. That James entered the Underworld the second he dove into that cenote, and these are just the many chambers of this world’s castle. How fitting it would be, to find Thomas, far away from the brutal, hateful world that condemned him. How peaceful it would be to stay here together, naked in the dark.

But Miranda is waiting for them, he reminds himself. Miranda, who loves them both, whom they both love. They are nothing when one of them is absent. James is nothing. He can’t be who Miranda needs him to be without Thomas. He cannot be who he needs himself to be.

And so, he dives. He swims further and further, knowing that by now, more than a day, perhaps several days even, have gone by. He is starved and exhausted, but he has felt this way since Thomas died. If he could keep moving back then, he can keep moving now.

* * *

There is light.

For the longest while, James thinks he’s dreaming, hallucinating. That it’s merely the spots dancing across his retina when he’s growing short of breath. His chest burns with it, but he’s been swimming for so long without coming up for air, he isn’t sure if he needs to anymore. And the light is consistent in colour, if nearly indiscernible for the first while. But it grows stronger, in its low, turquoise-green glow. It’s the colour of the surface water on a sunny day, the crystalline lagoons, the shallow reefs. It drives him to swim faster, faster, he pushes himself and drags himself along the now widening walls of the tunnel, and then…

The ceiling opens up.

He can see it now, his vision returned to him for the first time in days. The light is low, and he is unsure of its source as it seems to come from further down the cave’s corridor, but it is enough to light the space before him. Stalagmites and stalactites drip and grow from the ceiling and floor, shimmering subtly. They seem to line the corridor, leading him deeper into the caves. He prays he won’t have to swim anymore, but something tells him this is it. He has reached his destination.

He walks, each step heavy. His legs shake and his feet ache, and the water dripping from his naked skin just won’t seem to stop flowing, like he cannot get dry. Breathing somehow feels foreign and wrong. He wonders if he’s dead. He wonders if he’ll survive the journey back up.

There is movement from the corner of his eyes. Tiny white creatures, insects and fish and God only knows what else, skitter around the space. He can’t believe there is life down here, but then again, the ghostly white, eyeless little things don’t seem to be particularly alive. He picks one up; a cricket with antennae twice the length of his fingers. A hint of horror skitters under his skin, but then his mind goes numb, and he sinks his teeth into the insect with a sickening crunch.

It seems edible, if horrendously bitter. But the presence of food in his mouth only reminds him of his aching stomach, hollow and cramping. He plucks up more bugs as he goes. It doesn’t particularly matter what will kill him at this point; a poisonous bug, hunger, or exhaustion. But he hates the hunger, more than the bitterness of the bugs, and so he decides to eliminate that option as much as possible.

The further he walks, the more he is reminded of a castle again, though these tunnels are nothing like the forts and castles he has seen in his days. They are organic, with nothing but nature and stone shaping their opalescence. They curve and weave, growing lighter and darker at random from a sparkling light source hidden under the muck that covers the walls. Some corridors are half flooded. But one thing strikes James as he moves: there is not a soul in sight.

Until, suddenly, there is.

 _Thomas_ , he thinks, speaks, sobs. He’s not sure whether he’s actually spoken or whether his footsteps have given him away, but the figure waiting for him looks up, and James sags in relief, rushes over, falls into his lover’s arms before horrendously breaking down.

Thomas is… okay, it seems. There is not a trace of the blood that James had watched drain from his body, no sign of the wounds he had when he died. He looks pale, yes. Unnaturally so. But James supposes there has to be _something_ to show for the fact he no longer has blood flowing in his veins.

And James can attest to that, now. He has laid his head against Thomas’ chest like he has done so often in the past, and has been met with nothing but silence. But Thomas’ fingers still card through his hair, so gently, as he whispers, “I’m here, James, you made it, I’m here…”

It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. He’s naked and wet and shivering, chasing Thomas’ body heat, but Thomas has none to give. And James can’t seem to get dry.

“I’ve come to take you home,” James tells him then. He looks up to meet Thomas’ gaze, but his lover frowns. “I can bring you back.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It is a foreign voice, and James’ head snaps up, eyes wide and wild. A man emerges from the shadows, dragging one of his feet in a heavy limp. It doesn’t make him any less imposing, and James finds himself almost snarling, shielding Thomas behind himself despite being in a far worse physical state than his dead lover.

A smile tugs at the corner of the strange man’s mouth, his dark moustache twitching with it. His tone is light as he speaks, and he seems to be taking in the situation with mild amusement. It doesn’t make James any less tense.

“I must say,” the man speaks, “this is all very touching. But sadly, this is where your journey ends.”

“Like hell it is,” James snarls, but Thomas places a hand on his shoulder.

“James,” he says softly, and the gesture allows some of the tension and anger to bleed away. James lets his gaze drop to Thomas’ hand.

He stills.

There is seaweed wrapped around Thomas’ wrist. It’s thin and slightly translucent, but it’s there, like the tendrils of a jellyfish clinging to its prey. James turns a little to face Thomas, to study him closer, and realises that yes, the seaweed has wrapped itself around his other wrist as well. It’s on his ankles too, reminding James just a little too much of manacles.

He swallows.

“How far can you go?” he asks, and Thomas gives him a sad smile.

“I am free to move about,” he answers. “But I couldn’t tell you just how far these will let me reach.”

“I can,” the stranger speaks, and James throws him a venomous look that has withered many a man. Not this man, though, he begrudgingly comes to realise. The stranger walks over, and James can now see the metal hook where a foot should be.

“He’ll reach as far as I’ll let him.”

“Then let me take him,” James presses.

The man watches him with piercing blue eyes. They coldly scan James’ form, taking in his waterlogged skin sloughing on his starved form, his corded muscles, tense as James crouches like a cornered animal, ready to strike. James cannot help but shudder, suddenly much more aware of just how vulnerable he is. He is exhausted and on the brink of death. The man above him might have only one leg, but he looks strong, well-fed and well-rested.

“No,” the man finally says before turning around and limping away. Simple as that, the conversation over.

James feels the fury rise in his chest, red filling his vision. His hand finds a loose little rock, and he pelts it with surprising force to hit the man square in the back of the head.

“Let me take him,” he says again, his voice dropping to a growl.

The man comes to a standstill, then turns, ever so slowly.

“You threw a rock at me,” he says, incredulous.

James stares him down. The man looks increasingly confused, the groove on his forehead deepening.

“You know,” he finally says, “you’re not the first to try a stunt like this. You certainly won’t be the last. But you are most definitely the most _impudent_.” He slowly bends over, a little stiff with the metal leg, to pick up the rock. He weighs it in his hand, then, with lightning speed, pelts it right back at James.

James has no time to respond, simply sits there dazed as the rock strikes his forehead. He feels a small trickle of blood run down his face, and for a moment he welcomes it, as bizarre as the situation is. He’s still alive, it proves him. The one-legged man seems equally pleased to see the blood.

“No,” he says again, smug, as if the sight of James bleeding proves his point.

“Mr Silver.”

James feels his jaw drop a little. Thomas has spoken up beside him, carefully moving to his feet, and the one-legged man turns around again with a frustrated growl.

“ _What?_ ” he snaps. “I’m sorry, Thomas, but you’re dead. And so far, you’ve been pretty accepting of that fact.”

James almost reels with it. The words, though targeted at Thomas, strike him with the force of a sledgehammer. He feels like throwing up.

“I know I can never go back,” Thomas says, and though his words sound like he’s admitting defeat, James hears the debating edge in his voice, the fight he was always so accomplished at. The political fight, a battle of words – though his skills couldn’t save him when physical violence came into play. But something in this moment feels familiar, this is something Thomas is _good_ at, and James feels a spark of hope. He looks at the stranger, watches for any shifts in his demeanour.

“I cannot go back,” Thomas says. “But if you send him back now, he will die.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Convince me why I should care.”

James snorts. “Do you want me stuck here with you for the rest of eternity?”

At that, the man’s smirk falls. He throws up his hands in frustration. “Well what would you have me do?” he asks, and James doesn’t have an answer for that. Luckily, Thomas does.

“Rather than have him here for eternity, let him rest for a few days. Let him gather his strength. Then you can send him on his way.”

 _Who knows_ , James thinks, glancing at Thomas, at his determined features, at the life in his eyes that seems to have bled away from his skin. So familiar, so loved, yet so shockingly unknown. _Maybe it’ll give us time to convince him, too._ He smiles. _Convince him to let you go._

Thomas’ gaze is fixed on the stranger’s, whose eyes dart back and forth between the lovers on his stone floor. Finally, he throws his hands up with an exasperated sigh.

“Fine,” he says. “You can stay. You get three days, no more.” He gives them one last glance before finally retreating to the dark. Thomas lets out a sigh of relief, taking James’ face in his hands.

“I can’t believe you came for me,” he whispers. “What were you thinking?”

James lets out a bark of a laugh. “Not much, if I’m honest,” he admits. “Just…” _That I couldn’t live without you. That you were my life, my breath. That you formed and fuelled every word on my tongue. That I couldn’t think without you, couldn’t speak without you._ But the sentences die in his throat. He couldn’t possibly speak them now, doesn’t know how. Even when his voice is returned to him, sitting in his arms. Thomas seems to get the gist, luckily.

“Does Miranda know?”

“If she knew I was planning _this_ , I wouldn’t have made it down in the first place.”

They both laugh at that. It’s true; Miranda would have throttled him for thinking it, told him no fairy tale could bring back their husband. She would have then proceeded to tie him to the bed as well for good measure.

Thomas shakes his head. “This is one hell of a stunt you pulled, James.” He presses their foreheads together and smiles. “But I’m glad you did it.” He gets up then, and tries to help James to his feet too, only to notice how bad of a state his lover is in.

“I can’t believe you managed to make it all the way down here,” he says. “God, no offense, James, but you look like death.”

James barks out another laugh, but it comes out shaky. “I feel it.” He looks around the cavern. There are several passageways, it seems. The one-legged man who seems to run the place had come from one such passage, which James tells himself he won’t enter unless absolutely necessary. Other than that, all corridors seem the same.

“Where to?” he asks, and Thomas smiles.

“Just follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You’ll say ‘I’ve been so scared_   
>  _You left me here behind, do you not care?_   
>  _How the fuck am I supposed to carry on without you here?’_
> 
> _\- Welly Boots_ , The Amazing Devil


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I know your fingernails are the colour of rust (come back)_   
>  _And your veins are empty of dust_
> 
> _\- King_ , The Amazing Devil

When James finally awakes, it feels like he’s dragging himself up from the depths of the ocean. It’s a slow process, with waves of exhaustion surging over him to push him back down every now and then. But when he eventually does resurface, he feels groggy and almost as exhausted as when he fell asleep.

For a moment, he doesn’t dare to open his eyes. He’s disoriented, but he can tell the bed he’s lying on is not his own. There is a slight slope to it, and beneath the softness of what he presumes must be a thin mattress – though it feels like no mattress he’s even laid on – the bed is hard as stone. He breathes deeply, allowing the sleep to slowly ebb away, and as the scent of cool, damp stone hits his nostrils, he’s starting to accept that perhaps he didn’t dream. He is still in the caves he dove so deep to reach. He’s in the world of the dead. Which means…

“Thomas?” he croaks, and his throat feels like sandpaper. God, it’s a struggle to even open his eyes, but when he does, he is met with the same low, blueish green light that fills the rest of the Underworld. Thomas is there too, scrambling to get to him.

“Shh,” Thomas soothes him, gently carding his fingers through James’ hair as his lover tries to adjust to the light. “It’s okay, James, you’re okay.”

“You’re here,” James tries, but his voice is barely audible. “I made it, you’re here…”

“Yes,” Thomas smiles, and it’s only when he brushes his hand against James’ cheek that James realises he’s crying. “You gave me a hell of a fright, just so you know.”

James tries to remember, tries to remember what happened when he arrived, but it’s like wading through thick fog. He vaguely remembers a man looming in the shadows, shackles made of seaweed, an ultimatum –

He shoots up, dizziness washing over him, but he ignores it as he clamps onto Thomas’ arms. “How long was I out?” he presses. “I had… He – the man said…”

“Don’t,” Thomas urges him. “Don’t think about it. You’ve not recovered yet.”

“But how long?”

Thomas sighs, lightly worrying his lip as if trying to keep the words in. He shakes his head eventually, finally meeting James’ eyes as he speaks.

“You slept for about sixty hours.”

James’ mind is running on no food or water, and he struggles to process what he’s been told. His gaze meets Thomas’ with desperation, and Thomas sighs again.

“Two-and-a-half days.”

James’ eyes widen at that, and he nearly launches himself off the bed. “Fuck,” he mutters, “fuck, Thomas, I wasted it, I lost my chance, let me go, I need to speak to him, _get your fucking hands_ –”

He stops then, staring at Thomas as guilt and nausea claw their way up his throat. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean that.”

He waits for Thomas to crack a sad little smile, or perhaps laugh it away, but instead, for just a fraction of a second, the man looks at him like all he sees is a stranger. James withers under his gaze.

“I’ll let him know you’re awake,” Thomas finally says. “Please don’t try to get up until then. You’re still very weak.”

There is only the slightest hesitation before he leans in and presses a light kiss against James’ lips, a kiss that ends up lingering, and James sighs into it, drinks it in like it’s the only nourishment he needs. But then, Thomas is gone again, leaving James by himself in the room.

He takes the time to look around a little. It’s not so much a room as a hollowed-out cavern, everything made of stone. The bed he’s lying on is nothing but sloped rock, hewn out of the wall. His bedding is a mix of coral and sponge. Across from him, there is another rectangular block of hewn stone jutting out of the wall, vertically this time instead of his horizontal bed, and if he leans up a little, he can see it has been hollowed out at the top to form a little basin with fresh water quietly flowing into it. On the other side of the room is a steep dip in the floor, filled to the edge with more water, and James suspects it is what passes for a bath down here. Veins of glittering silver-green bioluminescence run along the walls to light the room. There is no door, just a gaping hole that leads into a corridor.

Thomas comes back a few minutes later, a bundle of fabric in his arms. He smiles, but there is no mirth to it.

“So,” he says, “do you think you can stand?”

* * *

James doesn’t want to know where the clothes came from. They’re a little loose on him, stained and faded by saltwater like he recognises from his own clothes after years out on the sea. They’re a sailor’s clothes, and perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised.

Thomas supports most of his weight as they make their way through the snaking corridors. “There was no dog,” James tells him as they turn a corner. Thomas lets out a huff of laughter.

“No dog?” he asks, a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Yeah, no three-headed dog,” James continues. “I expected a three-headed dog. All I got was undead crickets.”

“Those are very much living crickets, James,” Thomas tells him.

“Not anymore,” James mutters, and it nearly trips Thomas up. It isn’t often that James can surprise him like this, entertain him to the point of laughter rather than just the soft smiles and fierce respect they always shared. He hates that it has to happen after Thomas’ death.

“So,” Thomas eventually manages, “a dog? You realise this isn’t Erebus?”

“I feel like I crossed the river Styx, certainly,” James half-jokes. “Next time however I think I’ll just pay the ferryman.”

Thomas snorts. “We’re not in Greece, James,” he points out. “The man you met is not Hades.”

They turn another corner, and James has long given up on keeping track of the route. “Well, it can’t be Xibalba, since neither of us have the right to be there I assume,” he says, and Thomas frowns. Right. He’s not as well-versed on local myth and religion. James only went through the effort to learn after Thomas’ death; before that, neither of them ever had the opportunity to mingle with the indigenous locals. He decides he doesn’t have the energy to explain. Perhaps when he is back at full strength, when they’re back with Miranda, both breathing, he’ll tell Thomas of all the things he’s seen, all the things he’s learned.

“You’ve been down here longer than I have,” he points out instead. “What’s your theory?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas replies with a light shrug. “Where do men go who die at sea? Is there a special place for them?”

James frowns. “That is a good point, actually,” he replies. “If that is the case, this would be Davy Jones’ Locker… Though I believe the Locker is supposedly closer in its likeness to Hell than Erebus.” He looks up at Thomas, fire in his gaze. “I refuse to believe you would be sent to Hell.”

Thomas chuckles. “That is flattering, if a little naïve considering that we are both sodomites. And I did, in fact, die at sea.”

James decides to ignore those remarks. He shifts a little to redistribute his weight on Thomas’ arm as they go around another corner. “So if this is the Locker, is that man who gave us the ultimatum Davy Jones?”

“I resent that statement,” a vaguely familiar voice sounds, and James’ head snaps up. He hadn’t realised they had entered a larger cavern, where not one, but two people are waiting. The one-legged man stands by a large stone slab which James imagines must resemble a table based on the chair-like structures surrounding it. By the man’s side is a dark-skinned woman, her tightly braided hair tied back to reveal a sharp jawline and cheekbones. Despite the breeches, belt and colourful shirt she is wearing, she looks infinitely more refined than the man by her side. The man’s long, dark curls fall around a more heavily-set face with a slightly scraggly beard. His attire is similar to hers, but hangs more heavily on his frame. The fabric looks older too; his brown coat is frayed at the edges, his shirt stained with salt.

The man only studies them briefly, less interested in Thomas than in James, but the woman’s gaze rakes over them as they stand there, sharp as her features. James suspects from the way they carry themselves side by side that the two must be equals in some unknown way. As different as they may seem, they also complement each other, both radiating a certain sense of power.

“Do I look like a Davy to you?” the man asks, and a smile tugs at the woman’s mouth. She gives their visitors a nod.

“Please ignore my partner,” she says. “Come and sit.”

James looks warily between the two, but he lets Thomas lead him further into the chamber to a chair. The table is set with four plates and the most ornate, mouth-watering dishes. He suddenly feels violently aware of his empty stomach.

“Breakfast in bed really wasn’t an option, huh?” the one-legged man says, but the woman elbows him in the ribs as they too sit down together. She turns to James with politeness in her gaze but a proud little jut of her chin. For a brief moment, she reminds him painfully strongly of Miranda.

“I hope you managed to rest up,” she says to him. “As our guest, it is our _responsibility_ –” the emphasis for her partner is not lost, who rolls his eyes – “to make sure you are in an acceptable state to leave, when that time comes.”

Though James’ mind is still slow to match his weakened physicality, the tone of her voice cuts through the fog. There is something about what she is saying, but he can’t quite… can’t figure it out.

“I certainly slept well enough, ma’am,” he replies politely instead, though the words weigh heavy on his tongue. The niceties of parlour talk have followed him all the way down into the dark, and he wants to spit them out, wash them from his mouth, rid himself of the refined language spoken by those that took Thomas away from him –

“Then perhaps it is time you should eat up, too,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. He gets the idea that she is, in fact, genuinely wanting to look out for him, and not just in a hurry to see him gone. His eyes meet those of the one-legged man. They hold his gaze for a moment, but then drop, and it feels like he’s been granted permission. He quickly piles mountains of food onto his plate while Thomas pours the clearest water he has ever seen from an organically shaped goblet into a cup for him.

“Careful,” the man suddenly speaks gruffly, and James instantly drops a piece of fish he was about to transfer to his plate, like he’s burned himself. “Don’t overstuff yourself. You won’t be able to hold it down.”

He looks up to see the man barely cast him a glance, seemingly more interested in his own meal. His partner looks at him with an inscrutable gaze, and James feels perplexed. Does the man care? Does he not? Is he just doing what his partner wants him to do? Perhaps they aren’t equals after all, the woman perhaps holding more power. He’s not entirely convinced of that theory, though: the man radiates something, a sense of power that he can’t quite place, but it’s certainly there.

Still, he decides his best bet may be with the woman instead.

“I was actually hoping to speak to someone,” he tells her. “I cannot leave. Not yet.”

Her partner lets out a harsh breath, but she glares at him before nodding. “I agree,” she tells James. “And so does Silver. Trust me, he is only this frustrated because he knows he must concede on this point.”

“Madi,” the man – Silver – speaks in a low voice, only barely audible from where James is sitting, “do _not_ undermine me.” It’s a threat, but Madi seems wholly unperturbed.

“I don’t need to while you seemingly act like a petulant child, rather than the divine guardian of dead sailors you truly are,” she tells him coolly. He has nothing more to say after that.

 _Silver_ , James thinks, letting the name roll back and forth in his mind like the tide washing over the beach. It suits him, he supposes. Certainly more than Davy Jones.

Madi turns back to James then. “We discussed this in private earlier today, and came to the decision to give you an extra four days. Considering the weakened state you are in, we are both aware that it isn’t much, but if you stay any longer than a week, the chances of you untangling yourself from this world and returning at all become slim to none.”

 _Shit_. He hadn’t even thought of that. “Is it safe for me to eat this food?” he asks, just as he’s worked away a bite. Silver actually laughs at that, but there is no malice to it.

“We are not the fair-folk of Celtic lore,” he tells James. “This is honest food, grown and harvested from the ocean. You’ve had it all before in life, there’s no harm in having it while… well, you’re not dead, but it won’t kill you either.” It’s the most he’s said to James so far, and James is honestly a little surprised the man can sound in any way refined. He looks rough, scruffy, yet a tad intimidating. But there is a sharpness, an intelligence in his eyes, and a chosen weight yet simultaneous levity to his words. James wonders how he would hold up in an honest-to-god conversation. Would he enjoy engaging in debates the way Thomas and James do? Would he listen? Can he be swayed?

He certainly seems open to persuasion, if only from Madi. She still seems like his best bet at getting Thomas out of here, so for now, he will focus his energy on her.

“In that case,” he replies, “I’ll gladly have some more.”

Thomas places a hand on his wrist though. “Silver is right,” he says softly, “you need to pace yourself.”

James huffs. He’s starving and been given a feast; this is just cruel. But he concedes. Not because of Silver, but because of Thomas. He’s suffered the cenotes’ dizzying darkness and exhaustive depths for him. He can suffer some hunger, too.

* * *

They return to their chamber, and as complex and long as the route is, James is grateful for the isolation. With no door to lock them away from the rest of the caverns, he feels exposed, more naked than he’d felt upon his arrival. This is their private space, belonging only to Thomas and him, and the only reason he feels remotely comfortable is because of how remotely it lies from everything else.

In their relative privacy, they take the time to reacquaint themselves with each other. It has been over a month since Thomas died, and though it is not enough time for James to forget, he is terrified that it might be. He explores every inch of Thomas, slowly, taking his time in his still weakened state. He finds everything still in its place, every mole, every hair.

The only thing wrong is the pink, thin skin indicating a new scar, stretched across his jugular like a faded star. James stares at it, suddenly watching it torn wide open by the flying bullet again, violently shredded, blood spraying, God, _fuck_ , it was _so much fucking blood_ –

It used to be one of his favourite places to put his mouth, to gently suck until Thomas lays gasping beneath him, but now, as he lightly presses his lips against it, all he tastes is death.

Thomas is shushing him yet again, he realises, holding him as he is viscerally shaking. He can’t breathe, he’s drowning again, drowning in the blood spouting from Thomas’ neck, in the waters of the cenotes, in the grief, the raw fucking sorrow.

“I’m here,” Thomas says, but it’s not enough. James _lost_ him. _Completely_. The world tore Thomas from his fucking hands, brutally murdered him and said _you have no say in this, this is what you both deserve._ The world called him a monster, called Thomas a monster, wiped its hands of them. James lost everything he’d ever had. His career. His love. His world.

And Thomas is here, yes. But this is not where they should be. This never should have happened.

“Say it,” Thomas urges. “Don’t choke on it. Say it.” And no-one knows him as well as Thomas does. So he finally manages to spit out the words stuck at the back of his throat, catching his breath as they dislodge.

“I will undo this,” he gasps. “I will undo this. I will carry you back and show them, show the fucking lot of them they can’t kill you, that I _won’t permit it_.”

Thomas lets out a huff, like a sceptical or amused little laugh, and for a second James feels blinding fury claw its way up his throat. He knows he never spoke this way before, was but a lieutenant taking orders when Thomas died. The passion with which he engaged in Thomas’ debates was different back then; more rational, ready to fight the implausible but not the impossible. He was still easily influenced and swayed by the clever minds surrounding him.

But he’s since then stopped caring of what people thought he could have, what he could do, and decided to take indiscriminately what he decides he wants, needs, has a fucking right to. Thomas does not know the reality behind his words yet, but James is not ironic or sarcastic as he speaks them. They are as real and brutally earnest as his attempts to swim to the Underworld.

* * *

James is awoken hours later with a tray laden with food placed gingerly on his lap. He smiles at Thomas, and it feels so fragile, like he shattered into a million little pieces and any movement could send the shards flying, but Thomas smiles back and kisses him softly, gently, reminding him again that he is tangible, real. This is not a dream. James can hold him, cradle him, drag him back to the surface when he’s ready.

“I have a plan,” he tells Thomas when he’s filled up a little more. His strength is already returning, and he feels warm and sated for the first time in what feels like years. Thomas cracks a smile, his eyes glittering with mirth.

“Oh?” he enquires as he places a cup of a steaming drink in James’ hands. He watches his lover intently as James drinks, his eyes fixed on James’ throat bobbing. James revels just a little in it.

“Yes,” he speaks when his mouth is empty again. “The woman, Madi. I don’t know if those two are anything like the old Greek myths, but Orpheus managed to convince the gods only because Persephone was moved by his music. She was the one to sway Hades to allow Eurydice to leave.”

“And you believe to be able to do the same here?” Thomas asks. “May I remind you that you are nowhere near musically talented enough?”

“I can sing!” James protests, and Thomas throws his head back in laughter.

“Oh, as much as I desperately wish to hear that, I think you have to come up with a more concrete plan.”

James shakes his head. “I never intended to use music in the first place,” he points out. “What I mean is that I intend to sway Madi and hope she will in turn convince Silver.”

Thomas hums. “Not a bad plan,” he agrees. “Do you know how yet?”

James shrugs. “I need to get to know her better,” he says. “As of yet, I have no idea what would sway her. But I hope…” He falls silent for a moment. “I hope she can see my grief,” he adds softly. “That she’ll take heart, or pity. Something. Anything.”

Thomas squeezes his arm gently at that. “I think anyone can see your grief, James,” he tells him, and when James looks up, he sees the pain etched into his lover’s face. It only hits him now how much of his pain must hurt for Thomas to witness. He vows silently to wipe that pain off Thomas’ face and never see it there again. He leans up, capturing his lips in a searing kiss.

“No more grieving,” he mutters against Thomas’ lips. “No more suffering, no more pain.”

“You will undo this,” Thomas replies, still with a hint of not-quite-scepticism in his voice, and James lets out a soft growl.

“Death is a choice, and I choose to undo yours,” he speaks. Thomas pulls back just a little, studying the determination in James’ eyes.

“You truly believe you can do this,” he realises, marvels. James’ face splits into a mirthless grin.

“Life is a negotiation,” he says simply. “I don’t see why death should be any different. And I learned to negotiate from the best.”

At that, he can see Thomas’ pupils widen just a little, and he laughs.

“Of all the things to turn you on…”

“Are you surprised?” Thomas smirks too, now. He dips his head, mouthing along James’ collarbone. “You offer to debate with Death Himself.”

James laughs at that. “Yes,” he agrees breathlessly as Thomas’ mouth dips lower, “I do.”

“And you claim that you will win,” Thomas continues. His tongue darts out, wetting one of James’ nipples, who arches his back with a low hum. There is no breath to cool the spittle though, and the absence of it chills him a little.

“I accept no other option.”

Thomas looks up from Thomas’ navel now, something feverish in his eyes. “ _God_ ,” he blasphemes softly, breathlessly. “I love you.” He swallows James down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _'Cause you, you touch_   
>  _My skin peels off like paint_   
>  _But beneath all of our panting_   
>  _There’s this noise I cannot shake_
> 
> _\- That Unwanted Animal_ , The Amazing Devil


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This here is not singing, I’m just screaming in tune_
> 
> _\- Farewell Wanderlust_ , The Amazing Devil

James has had enough of resting. This is not what he came here for; to lie in the dark and sleep until he can swim back to the surface. After some arguing, Thomas had gone away and returned with a broken mast to function as a walking staff. James had taken it wordlessly and set off.

Thomas had told him that there was not much rhyme or reason to the cave system, and that he’d learned to navigate it by following the luminescence crawling across the walls. James knows it isn’t much to go on, but he stubbornly goes anyway, hoping his instinct or some form of magic will lead him where he needs to go.

It is about ten minutes into his exploring that he starts to realise the pattern, a pattern he understands Thomas might not have seen, but one that burns bright before his eyes.

The glowing veins in the walls resemble stars. They stretch like the arms of the galaxy overhead when he sails and has been given the nightshift, standing on the deck to gaze up at the night sky. He can almost feel the rocking of the wood beneath his feet as walks, although that might be the lingering exhaustion. Any sailor would recognise them and know to let them aid his navigation. Thomas was a mere passenger on the ship he died on, but James is an experienced sailor. He decides to follow Polaris and lets it lead him to his destination.

“Lieutenant McGraw?”

Madi stands up from what is undeniably an ornate coral throne on an elevated platform at the centre of a huge, cavernous space, the scroll she was reading carefully placed over one of the armrests. Silver is, thankfully, nowhere to be found. James feels relief wash over him as he stands before her, amazed that he managed to find this place, baffled by his luck that only Madi is here to welcome him.

“We need to talk,” he tells her grimly. She nods, her face equally stern. He realises suddenly that she takes this very seriously, and he feels beyond grateful. He walks into the room, leaning on his staff as little as possible in an attempt to straighten himself to his former military height. Madi resumes her seat on the throne, the scroll rolled up and set aside now, and James goes to stand before her.

“I will be taking Thomas with me when I have regained my strength,” he tells her then. She nods again.

“I have no doubt that you will try,” she retorts, and he grits his teeth. “But as it stands, the two of you will not get far. _You_ might, but if you decide to hold onto him as you go, you will find yourself weighed down. You will drown, lieutenant.”

“Please –” he says harshly, then checking himself, softening his tone. “I have not been a lieutenant since they took Thomas from me.”

“Then what will you have me call you?”

He looks at her, at her respectful gaze, the proud jut of her chin. He can almost hear Miranda’s voice.

“James is fine,” he tells her. She nods in acknowledgement, then leans forward a little, drawing him in with her gaze.

“You will drown, James.”

He swallows. “I don’t care,” he says. “I have to try.” He lets out a dry laugh then. “Of course, ideally speaking I would like to make it out alive, with him by my side.”

Madi holds him under close scrutiny, silent for an uncomfortably long time. “Why plead your case to me?” she finally asks, though he can see in her eyes that she knows the answer. There is no point in toying with her.

“You hold sway over him,” he answers simply. “And I have your attention.”

“You think you don’t have his?” she asks.

“Silver doesn’t give a shit about this,” he snaps. “He made that clear. He avoids me, and frankly, I prefer to do the same to him. He has no interest in what I want – what I _need_. What the world needs.”

“The world needs Thomas to return from the dead.”

“Yes!” He takes a breath, steadies himself. Madi’s gaze on him is inscrutable, and he wonders suddenly if he made the right bet. “You have heart. Isn’t it the nature of every relationship? The man has his pride, his stubbornness, while the woman has heart, has a willing ear. Please,” he pleads softly. “I just ask of you to speak to him. Get him to be interested, invested in this.”

“You still haven’t made your case,” she points out after a moment. James frowns.

“I haven’t?”

“All you’ve told me,” she says, “is that the world needs your lover. You haven’t told me why, or what he will do when he returns. What is it that is so important that needs doing, that only he can do? Some task that you cannot possibly take over from him? What does the world need a Lazarus for?”

He feels his mouth dry up. She is sharp, sharper than he had anticipated. He had underestimated her, and now he finds himself numb and wordless before her.

“I’m sure you have some idea,” she tells him then. “But for now, all I hear is a grieving man.” Her gaze cuts through him, and his chest is heaving, but he refuses to break down under the weight of her words. He has cried enough; he certainly is not about to prove her right. The time for tears is over, he told Thomas. He is done grieving. But she doesn’t seem to think it the case.

“Everyone grieves for the loss of a loved one,” Madi speaks. “It is part of life. If every person asking for their love to be returned was granted their wish, we would have no spirits to watch over. Just because you, what, grieve harder? Which certainly is evident by your appearance here. Silver and I are impressed, and we commend you for your determination, but as he said, you are not the first, nor will you be the last. Your grief is not enough. It will never be enough.”

“Then what is the point?” he snaps. “Why the fuck should I bother?”

“Because you have an argument,” she reminds him. “I can see it in your eyes. But you came to these chambers today fuelled by the same things that led you to this world, James.” She stands up, and suddenly he feels dwarfed by her presence. “You make the same mistake, over and over again.”

“And what would that be?”

“You throw yourself into your emotions headfirst.” She pokes her index finger against his forehead, nearly causing him to sway. “You need to _stop_. Catch your breath, collect yourself. Come back when you have your thoughts in a row.”

He wants to snarl, lash out, shake her until she understands the crippling pain he feels, that this is so much more than grief, that he carries the loss of everything that was and could be, had Thomas lived. He carries the grief of society on his shoulders, a grief of everything that society could have become, a grief society will never know, so he must shoulder the burden instead.

But it is clear Madi is done with him today. So he lets out a shuddering breath, tries to let the anger dissipate a little as he steps back. “I will be back,” he assures her. She finally smiles, her teeth a gleaming white in the perpetual low light.

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

Before he leaves the room, she calls after him one more time.

“James?”

He turns to see she has taken her place on the throne again, that strange, inscrutable look in her eyes. “You’re wrong, you know,” she tells him. He frowns.

“My partner has a personal investment in each of these cases, rare as they may be. You do have his attention.”

She returns to reading her scroll, and James takes that as his cue to leave.

* * *

Finding the way back turns out to be a lot harder. It’s not just a case of going the opposite direction; every corridor looks the same, and James certainly doesn’t remember the constellations in the last stretch to Thomas’ room. So he ends up adrift, slipping in and out of caverns, soaking his boots in semi-flooded corridors and dirtying his hands as he lets his fingers slide along the grimy walls, leaving stripes in the muck to reveal more stars. He cuts his finger on a barnacle at one point, and he savours the sharp pain travelling along his hand. _Still not dead_ , he thinks to himself.

But it makes him wonder; is pain possible in death? It is possible enough for Thomas to talk, to be marked by his killing scars, but he has no heartbeat, no breath. Does he hurt? Does he bruise if James mouths at his skin strongly enough? Does he feel?

Something switches in his mind all of a sudden, like one of his senses is triggered somehow, and he stops in his tracks. Was it scent? Touch? Sound? He takes a moment to mentally recap the last few seconds. _Sight_ , he thinks. He saw something, something unusual. He takes a few steps back and notices an opening to his right, like the opening to his and Thomas’ room. When he looks in, he sees a person.

But it isn’t their room, and the person isn’t Thomas.

The person sitting there is not much more than a boy, and he is looking straight at James.

“I didn’t realise there were others down here,” James says, his voice hoarse. The boy’s lips curl up into a mirthless smile.

“Oh, there are,” he tells James. “There’s hundreds of us. Thousands, even. Every soul that has perished on the waves is amassed down here, you know. You just see the ones you need to. The ones that matter.”

“And what makes you special?” James asks, but he doesn’t want to know. He recognises the kid’s face. He doesn’t know him, doesn’t know his name, but he knows his face, and dread pools in his stomach at what the boy might say next.

“Oh, I’m just one of many,” the kid replies. “But I heard you were here, and I wanted you to see me. That’s all it takes, really. For us to show ourselves.”

James swallows, the words dried up in his mouth. He can’t speak, feels his pulse race. His lip twitches, pulls up into a hint of a snarl. The boy tilts his head, curious.

“So you recognise me,” he says. “Am I special after all?”

“You’re one of many,” James retorts with a sneer, the copied words dripping like venom from his bared teeth, poisoning only himself. He feels his heart whither. “Now fuck off, kid. I don’t need more ghosts to haunt me.”

The boy stares at him for a moment, then huffs. He stands up swiftly, walking over with large strides. James wants to back away, but he stands his ground. The kid is dead, there is nothing he can do to James. Except he takes James’ hand and yanks it to his chest.

“Right here,” the boy says, and James feels it, knows it’s a phantom sensation but he can feel the blood spurting through his fingers, feels it soaking his skin, hot and sticky. “I am one of many,” the kid tells him. “My body went down with the ship. We all went up in flames before becoming food for sharks. My mother will never know what became of me.”

James yanks his hand away, finally taking a step back. “Your mother knew the risks when you told her you signed up for the Royal Navy.”

He stomps away, seeing from the corner of his eye how the boy fades like smoke, leaving no trace behind.

James can still feel the blood under his nails.

* * *

“War,” he tells Madi what he assumes to be hours later. “The tearing down of a power that has outgrown itself, that deserves to be put in its place.”

Madi lifts an eyebrow. “Are you planning to reignite the fight with the Spanish?” she asks. She’s playing dumb, he can see in it in her eyes, but she wants the truth from him, the full argument, so she will make him articulate his thoughts. “The Dutch, then?” she continues. “I thought the English and the Dutch were allies.”

“I am not tearing down one colonial power with another,” James tells her. “Though I suppose I see your point.”

“The English, then,” she says, finally playing along. “Your own kind.”

“They made their opinions on Thomas and I being _one of them_ very clear,” James spits. “We will tear them down.”

Madi stares at him for a good, long while. Then, she speaks again.

“This is revenge, James.”

“This is justice!”

“Justice? All you’ve spoken of is taking the English down a notch, the only reason supposedly being that they have outgrown themselves! Why must they be put in their place?”

James opens his mouth, but she silences him with a sharp gesture. “They took your lover. Until you can give me a clear, concise answer without raising your voice, that is the only justification I see in your heart, the only words I hear from your tongue, no matter what you tell me. He is not your pawn, James, to be rubbed under their noses, to show them they cannot control everything.”

“He would have a purpose in this war.”

“Other than being your figurehead?”

“He is the mind between us,” James says. “The genius, the socialite. The politician. I’m just…” He lets out a bitter laugh. “I was just arm candy. Perhaps, when we get our war, I am the military strategist. But this fight needs him in order to exist, to live. It needs him alive to lead it.”

Madi still looks at him, unmoved. James is starting to think his assumption was wrong that she might be the heart between her and Silver. Or perhaps it is so much more complex, a shade of grey he has become colour blind to since Thomas’ death.

“Perhaps,” Madi says. “But there are no grounds for your war, other than revenge. Anyone losing a lover wants to fight the world, James. You are not special in this. It is not enough.”

He wants to spit at her, snarl at her, but she is unmoving, rigid and strong as jagged coastal rocks against the constant beating surf. And he is not bringing a strong enough wave.

“Perhaps I should speak with Silver after all,” he says, but Madi huffs.

“Silver hears your claims,” she tells him. “I pass on every word. I would rather you not seek him out. This is easier for him.”

James squints at her. She seems honest enough, but he doesn’t like it, doesn’t trust it. If she wants to be difficult, strongheaded, withstand the beating of the waves, he just needs to beat down harder, or find a way around. If she wants to keep him from Silver, then Silver he shall see. He’s grown tired of her, anyway.

* * *

“Hey, kid!” he calls out as he storms down the corridors. “Show yourself! I’m sure you’d love nothing more than to haunt me, so come and fucking haunt me.”

“Ideally, I’d just like to make life difficult for you,” the kid’s voice sounds, and James whirls around. “But I guess time passes slowly down here, and you’re the most entertaining thing to happen to me in a while. Sure. What do you want?”

“You know the way around here, don’t you?” James says. “Lead me to Silver.”

“What, to the boss?” The kid lets out a nervous little laugh. “You know what, I’m good, actually. I don’t need him focusing his wrath on me.”

“Then just tell me how to find him,” James presses.

“Does it mean you’ll leave me alone?”

“As long as you leave me the fuck alone, sure,” he snaps back. “Though we could always haunt each other. I’m sure you like the sight of me down here as much as I like yours.”

“Fuck you,” the kid retorts, but it’s weak, and he’s looking awfully pale. “You just need to follow the stars…”

He begrudgingly explains the constellations, the shift in their positions on the walls, the way they can guide you to any destination more complex than the throne room under Polaris. He explains how the “heavens” shift, constantly adjusting to the location of the people they form a map to. He’s clever, a sailor through and through, even for the young age he seems to have died at.

James follows the corridors. He’s starting to understand, now, how the constellations aren’t just a reference, but form in themselves a map, lining out the destinations if only you know how to read them. He knows now how to line up the arrow of Sagittarius, Thomas’ constellation, to lead him back to his room. Silver, on the other hand, can be found by following Gemini.

He finds the man in what oddly reminds him of an office. The shelves lining the walls, like everything else, are hewn from stone and subtly decorated with coral. They are lined with books, scrolls, vials and other paraphernalia, and James is briefly distracted by the wealth of knowledge amassed in the small room. There is a huge translucent dome placed over a central table, in which he can see the glint of the stars shifting across the surface. Under the shifting stars lie the snaking passages and cavers. A map of the world, James understands, of _this_ world. It is the most blatant piece of magic he’s seen so far down here, shattering the illusion he’s secretly been nurturing that this place is nothing but a deep-lying cave system, and Thomas might still be alive somehow.

Silver looks up from a tome in which he’s been writing, only mild surprise briefly crossing his face as he sees James. “Well, this was bound to happen sooner or later,” he says, sounding rather unperturbed at the intrusion.

“Your partner refuses to fucking listen,” James grits, “so I thought I’d try my luck with you.”

“You don’t have another rock on you, do you?” Silver asks mirthfully, and James’ fingers twitch. For a moment, he wishes he did. “Interesting to see that you’re more than happy to drop the niceties when Madi isn’t around.”

“You’re not fucking nobility,” James spits at that, and Silver raises an eyebrow.

“Am I not?” he asks.

“It’s a wonder you were put in charge,” James says. “How is it you rule this world instead of her?”

Silver slowly, carefully, gets up, every move calculated, and suddenly, James feels a brief spark of panic. The mirth has left Silver’s face, replaced instead by something grave, with just the faintest hint of darkness. It is far more unsettling than if he’d turned into some full-blown, murderous creature, like the subject of a child’s bedtime stories. This man holds darkness inside of him like a caged animal, and by showing only the glint of it in his eye, he shows control that he can unleash at a whim, a moment’s notice. A man who will willingly, without qualms, choose to do so.

“I wonder if you ever reached the other side of the ocean you and Thomas were crossing,” Silver muses as he moves closer. He weighs a little more heavily on his good leg than he did when they met, James realises absentmindedly. “If you ever settled into the life there, saw the goings on.”

He’s made his way around his desk now, and leans back against it, searching James’ gaze. “It is no kingdom, no empire,” he tells him. “The world of the islands, of the ocean and of down below. These form a world that does not follow nobility, or old money. Everything is new; quickly won, quickly lost, and coated in blood.” The corners of his mouth curl up, the movement emphasised by his moustache.

“How do you imagine I got to rule?”

 _You fought for it_ , James thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Why would anyone fight to rule the dead?

“What do you want from me?” Silver asks then, the tense atmosphere that has grown between them shifting, dissipating just a little. “Do you want me to listen to your plight?”

“Yes,” James says, his voice found again. “I want you to listen.”

Silver lets out a chuckle. “Or perhaps you want me to concede? Because Madi listens,” he tells James. “She listens like the best of them. She just didn’t give you what you want.”

“Just…” James grits his teeth. “Humour me.”

At that, Silver barely manages to hold back a laugh, but he nods once, spreading his hands as if to give James the floor. It strikes James that the man seems less apathetic than when they shared a meal. He seems more at ease here, surrounded by his own collections. This is no formality he was forced into. Instead, he is at home, comfortable and in his element. Is seems to have given him the energy to focus his attention on James, and he leans back to hear what he has to say.

“When they…” James starts, nearly tripping over the weight, the immeasurable size of the words forcing their way out of his mouth, “ _killed_ Thomas… They did it where there is no law, no politics, no jurisdiction. No need for elaborate lies, or a humiliating sentence that would ruin his father’s career. They did it because they could, they did it because we had hope and they showed us how easily they could shatter it.”

He looks at Silver, his gaze hard. “They showed us their hand,” he growls.

“They?” Silver enquires, knowing, just like Madi, exactly what James means, but pulling the truth from him like a surgeon pulling teeth.

“England.”

Silver nods at that, acknowledgement and permission to continue rolled into one gesture.

“The system is rotten,” James speaks; the anger, acidity, sheer venom of his words shredding his voice. “Control without heart, based on profit and not an ounce of humanity. I may not have fully integrated myself in Nassau’s daily life, but I have seen the slaves, the plantations that feed into the Empire. Alternatively, I have also seen how freely the rest of Nassau moves on the streets, on the beaches. It is a brutal life, but Nassau, the part of it not controlled by His Majesty, is more alive than England and its Empire could ever be, while the plantations carry nothing but the stench of death. The Empire has no heart, and if it ever did, it has long since stopped beating, leaving nought but a rotting carcass that swells and spreads its stink across the Free World.”

There is something in Silver’s eyes. A fierce glimmer of curiosity. Something James recognises from Thomas’ many lectures, something reflected among a handful of the men from his salon.

A spark.

He feels a thrill going through him. James can be an awkward man, a hard man. He’s never really known how to charm someone, how to sway them gently, like Miranda can, or intelligently and with a passion for good, like Thomas can. But it seems he holds some power after all, fuelled perhaps not by goodness or a love for people, but by a passion nonetheless. It seems the Hamiltons taught him well.

“The people in parliament know that Thomas is dead,” he continues, bolstered by the little rush of power. Silver does not seem mesmerised, but James sees him nevertheless weigh every word. “To bring him back would shock them, unbalance them, which would provide a tactical opportunity. But this is about more than using Thomas’ return as a tool. Thomas holds a sway over those that matter. He knows how to convince the right people, knows exactly where to apply pressure and fan the flames to fight the system. He is _vital_ in this war.”

James, for the first time in days, stands fully upright, feeling righteous fury fuel him and bring him back to a strength reminding him of his days when he was lieutenant, when he still had some sense of control of his emotions, knew when to reel them in. His eyes bore into Silver’s, and Silver stares right back.

“Remind me,” the man finally speaks, “what was your goal when you set sail for Nassau?”

James swallows, suddenly feeling a little off-kilter, like stepping off a rocking deck and onto land for the first time in weeks. “I don’t see why it matters.”

A hint of a smile tugs at Silver’s lips, and he says, “Humour me.”

James feels a muscle in his jaw jump. “We were going to offer pardons to the pirates of Nassau,” he replies after a moment. “Turn them into honest labourers to help clean up the island.”

“And return it to the control of the British,” Silver finishes for him. James nods stiffly.

“I have one final question for you,” Silver says. His gaze sharpens. “Has Thomas, in his death, also seen the ‘truth’ of the rotting carcass of the Empire? This war you are planning. Will he _want_ to lead it?”

James can hear nothing but the rush of his blood in his ears. The blue of Silver’s eyes has turned into a storm-churned ocean, ready to crash down on him and swallow him whole.

“Talk to him,” Silver says, breaking eye contact to return to his seat behind the desk.

“Is that a no?” James finally asks, his voice sounding distant. Silver looks up one final time.

“I will consider your words,” he replies.

James leaves.

* * *

“How’s the singing going, Orpheus?” Thomas mutters into James’ skin. The teasing nature of the words is not reflected in his voice, but James can’t make out if it’s because what he hears instead is worry, or hope, or something else entirely. Dead Thomas may look similar to Alive Thomas, but he sounds oh so different, like the fight drained from him along with his blood.

“It was his lyre that convinced the gods,” James replies absentmindedly, “not his singing.” He’s drawing circles into Thomas’ back. The man barely shivers under his touch, and he wonders.

“Do you feel?” he asks, his voice soft. He steels himself for the answer, fearing the way it might cause him to shatter like he’s been expecting to any moment.

“Depends,” Thomas replies. “What should I feel?”

“My touch.”

Thomas tilts his head up, leaning in to steal a kiss from James’ lips with a smile. “Yes,” he whispers against his closed mouth, capturing the briefly escaping breath of relief. “I can feel your touch.”

“And…” James gingerly reaches to touch the scar where a bullet tore through Thomas’ jugular, tearing them both apart. “This?”

“I remember something,” Thomas answers, honest as he always is with James. “Something brief and bright. But then it… muted, and I started dying. I haven’t felt it since. Haven’t felt pain since.”

James stills beneath him. He contemplates the words, then pushes up, carefully rolling Thomas over so that he ends up on his back, with James now above him. He leans in and presses his mouth against the skin, which tastes faintly of the sea. It never used to, before.

He sucks, gently at first, then harder, until he elicits a gasp from Thomas. He wonders if the gasp is involuntary. He doesn’t know anything anymore. Life should be easy and uncomplicated down here; it is death, after all. Nothing in life is simpler than death. But instead, he feels more bewildered than ever. He’s lost his footing, foreign soil under his boots. When he pulls back, there is a red patch on Thomas’ pale skin, like it might bruise later. He touches it gingerly.

“Is this real?” he asks, almost to himself, not quite trusting Thomas to know the answer.

“Hard to say,” Thomas replies. “Is anything?”

“Don’t,” James snaps then, the anger he feels so constantly now flaring. “Don’t do that.”

And again Thomas looks at him with that gaze that holds so little recognition for the man James is becoming, has become since watching his lover die at the hands of men he held loyalty to.

“This is wrong,” James gasps. “You were never meant to be here. Be _dead_.”

“I took a risk in loving you,” Thomas tells him, tone pressing. “I paid the price. Sooner or later it was bound to happen.”

“No, it was _never_ meant to happen,” James snarls back, pushing off Thomas. “They punished us for loving each other, for an act _they_ declared vile.” He stares harshly at Thomas, who suddenly looks apprehensive about being naked in a bed with whoever the man is before him. “Do not tell me you agree with them.”

At that, Thomas closes his eyes. “I would never,” he speaks softly. “James, I would never. I loved you more deeply than anything I have felt in my life.”

“But now?” James whispers. The past tense of _loved_ has not gone past him, and he feels the cavernous darkness widen within his chest.

“I still do,” Thomas presses. “I will never stop loving you. But you are changing, James. Down here, things are different. I feel… muted. And there is a glass wall between us. You are alive, bright and blazing and I…”

“You are dead.”

“I feel like the night,” Thomas whispers. “That is what this place is. It is the night. The calm of the dark, the peace of sleep. But you are the sun.”

“Then let me guide you out of the dark,” James urges. “Please. You cannot tell me that you don’t want to come back into the light.”

Thomas looks at him, so torn, and James feels it, feels the shards of him splinter, crumble. “Come back to me,” he urges. “To Miranda. To _life_. I can’t stay here with you, I don’t belong here. You’ll be alone again.”

At that, something in Thomas breaks, breaks before it can in James, and for a cruel second it feels like a fresh dollop of glue to keep him together just a little longer. Thomas looks _wrecked_ , though, hurt and betrayal on his face, tears silently slipping down his face.

“You cannot expect me to stay here for you,” James tells him. “Look at me. Look at us. I would move Heaven and Earth for you, I would fight the dawn if I could, if it would help, but I will just wind up destroying everything.” He gasps, for the sight of Thomas like this hurts so much, beyond everything he’s ever felt. “You are not done,” he urges. “I cannot stay here, but you _can_ come with me.”

He surges forward, closing his eyes to the pain and instead blindly drinking in Thomas’ sorrow. He kisses it from his lips, tastes it on his tongue as they share a sobbing breath. “Come back with me,” he whispers between each kiss. “Come back with me. Come back with me.” Until eventually, after minutes, moments, hours of movement, Thomas sighs back into him, just one whispered word:

“Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If I’m good, will you come back to us?_
> 
> _\- Two Minutes_ , The Amazing Devil


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Pray for me, oh children pray for what I’ve I’ve I’ve I’ve done_   
>  _I’ll haunt the very wrinkles of your skin_   
>  _Pray for me, I’ll run until I begin to understand_   
>  _What holy men really mean when they speak of sin_
> 
> _\- Pray_ , The Amazing Devil

James has two days left.

He wishes he could sleep at least; Madi and Silver won’t see him, Thomas says, until he’s rested, until he’s allowed them some time to process his words. He knows his health is part of the deal to give him these extra days, but he just cannot sleep. Instead, he lies in the dark for hours, staring at the ceiling, touching Thomas all the while. He has to in order to remind himself the man is still there; he can’t hear him otherwise. Thomas doesn’t breathe, doesn’t need to shift with discomfort.

James is lying in bed with a corpse, he knows, and it’s a worse nightmare to be awake.

When he has counted every star that lights up their room three times, he gets up. Thomas lets out a protesting noise, but it’s been long enough. James can’t lie around anymore. He has two days, and he needs to know if he’s done enough. If he hasn’t, he will need to do more.

He makes his way through the corridors again, following the guidance of Castor and Pollux until he reaches Silver’s office. To his shock, the man is not alone today.

“But is there merit in his words?” Silver urges, his voice low. “A truth?”

“Look,” one of Silver’s three visitors – a man with shaggy hair and sideburns sharp as daggers – says, his voice a little haughty. “I have the trickiest job of us all here, and you need to remember that there are other factors in play. Not everything I can give you is accurate.”

James quickly ducks out of sight, just around the corner. He knows, instinctively, that this conversation is about him, and he’s burning to know what they are saying.

“The primary factor being Thomas,” Silver replies. “I’m aware. But what can you see, Jack? Just give me something. Anything.”

The man with sideburns laughs. “Well, there is certainly a determination. I think he has it in him.”

“The man he is right now will follow up on his word,” a second voice comes. It’s low and rough, but if James isn’t mistaken, it belongs to a woman, or otherwise a young man. Given that he’d caught a glimpse of the trio, he wagers it’s the angry-looking redhead hiding under the brim of their hat. “You should see the damage that surrounds him, Silver. Fucking mental.”

“May I remind you,” the third person speaks, and this must be the man with the bare torso, hair down his back and cheekbones for days, “of the last fucking time you allowed this shit to happen?”

“Thank you, Vane, but I remember with _perfect_ clarity,” Silver snaps.

“Then I don’t know what the fuck you keep me around here for,” Vane retorts harshly. “If your memory serves you so fucking well, no need for me to be here, is there?”

James decides he’s not going to get any further clear information just by listening, so he steps into the office. All four people look up simultaneously. Silver’s eyes grow sharp and a little cold as they meet his. It’s clear he is aware James was listening in and doesn’t appreciate the fact one bit. James think Silver can go fuck himself.

“Ah, captain,” the man with the sideburns – Jack, Silver called him – says, straightening himself. James feels his brow knit together. “I believe introductions are in order. We are the Fates. Past,” he points at Vane, “Present,” he indicates the redhead, “and yours truly, the Future.”

James feels his confusion deepen. “But you have Christian names?” he asks. The redhead snorts. Jack places a placating hand on her arm, and she relaxes a little.

“Of course, if you’d prefer addressing us with the names you _overheard_ us using,” he says not unkindly, despite the emphasis. “In that case, meet Charles Vane, Anne Bonny, and I, Jack Rackham.” He gives a sardonic little smile. James decides he doesn’t like him.

“You called me captain,” he says. “Is that what lies in my future?”

“Oh, there’s many things in your future, as there are for anyone,” Rackham replies dismissively, with a wave of his hand. “Captain is perhaps your most immediate ‘what could have been’. It is also the most indisputable identity I see in you.”

“I was meant to be a captain?”

“You were this close to becoming one before coming down here,” the man nods, pinching two fingers together. “And I have no doubt you will become so upon returning to the land of the living. It’s in your blood. Or perhaps it is your destiny. Take your pick, really.”

Yeah, James _really_ doesn’t like him.

“Have you thought about what I said yet?” he asks Silver, deciding to ignore the Fates. Silver barks out a laugh.

“It’s all we can talk about at the moment,” he replies, indicating his present company. “Have you spoken to Thomas yet?”

That little muscle in James’ jaw jumps again. “Yes,” he replies curtly. “He wants to come back with me.”

Bonny tilts her head, and James catches a glimpse of her eyes under her broad-rimmed hat. He feels his mouth dry.

“Does he know?” she asks then, and his heart-rate speeds up, hands pricking. He wants to grab something, just like the last time he was in here, wishing he had a rock, something to fight with. Between fight or flight, his flight instincts seemed to have left him along with Thomas, leaving nothing but aggression and the stubborn insistence to hold his position and meet whatever comes his way headfirst, to cut it down before it can get to him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he rasps. She spits. Silver winces, and Rackham quickly goes to clean up the vulgarity. They’re a strange mix of people, if anything.

“Does he know who you are?” Bonny asks, ignoring the men around her. “Does he know of the blood staining the waters around you?”

James feels himself growing flushed and furious. “Aren’t you meant to be Present?” he snaps. “What you’re talking about –”

“Doesn’t matter if you did it before you got here,” Vane speaks then. “The line between past and present might be blurred, but that blood isn’t even dry. It’s still dripping from your hands. Smells pretty fucking Present to me.”

And James can feel it, hot and sticky on his fingers. He’s shaking. “Stop,” he says hoarsely, but none of them seem inclined.

“You stain the waters red, captain,” Rackham tells him. “Now and tomorrow. Your passions won’t be deterred, whether your love is by your side or not.”

“Stop!” he barks, but these people don’t acknowledge his authority, even if they call him captain. He sends a pleading look Silver’s way, but the man just watches him, leaning back into the shadows as the Fates tear into him.

“Will Thomas want to return to the land of the living with a rabid dog?” Bonny asks.

“Is his memory of who you were strong enough to be blind to the blood?” Vane adds.

“Will he join you in your passions and lead your war?” Rackham finishes, and with a mighty growl James has had enough. He strides into the office, moving around the desk, and slams Silver against the shelves, and for a second, he sees something cross the man’s face akin to pain.

But then the man smiles, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Tell them to get out,” James snarls.

“John…” Rackham warns, a hint of worry in his voice, but Vane shakes his head.

“Silver can protect himself,” he says curtly. “Come on, let the guy get it out of his fucking system.”

Bonny gives them a final once-over, but then she and Rackham reluctantly follow Vane. James’ eyes find Silver’s again, and he feels his upper lip curl.

“Why do you have to make this so fucking difficult?” he snarls. “This would be far easier for the both of us if you just let me take him.”

Silver lets out a huff of laughter at that. “You don’t truly think the King of the Dead would just make things easy, do you?” he says, genuine confusion flickering in his eyes. “Surely you’re more intelligent than that.”

James slams down a fist on the shelf beside Silver’s head, causing him to wince again. “Is this a fucking game to you?” he growls.

“Consider it a trial,” Silver replies. The humour is leeching from his expression, turning to frustration and anger. “Nothing comes for free, and something as valuable as the life of a lover certainly doesn’t come _cheap_.” He pushes forward against James’ grip just a little, his eyes boring into the other man’s. “It is my job to maintain balance, and if you just take someone from my care, that balance is upset.”

“By that same measure, someone alive like me being here should upset the balance as well,” James retorts. A muscle around Silver’s eye twitches, and he pulls back a bit. “Am I right? Is that why I cannot stay long? Not for my sake, but for the world’s balance?”

The way Silver looks at him changes, then. Shifting slowly to a cautious curiosity, that spark of interest from the other day returned. James realises he may just have stumbled upon a truth not many people would have deducted.

“Would it matter?” Silver asks. “If it were about my world, rather than your life? You are not exactly a man with self-preservation instincts.” James swallows. _No more_ , he thinks, _no more truths to rend me to pieces_. He takes a small step back out of Silver’s space.

“You are destructive, both to those around you and yourself,” Silver observes. Whether he came to this conclusion himself, through Madi’s counsel or that of the Fates, James doesn’t know. He supposes it doesn’t matter. “Do you care less if I tell you that staying could lead to your destruction, or if I tell you it could destroy everything around me?”

The words are tailored, measured, thought through. Not a random thought, James suspects. There’s something about them that nags him, but he can’t put his finger on it. He thinks of Thomas.

“If it destroys the world Thomas resides in, then that is my main concern,” he rasps. “I will leave when I have to.” Silver studies his face, then nods, seemingly satisfied for now.

“Then I suggest you return to your lover,” he says, “and you discuss the truth with him. Show him who he will be returning with. Tell him what you want him to return to. Makes sure he knows.”

“Why does it matter?” James asks, for what feels like the thousandth time since he’s arrived here. “Why does it matter if he knows or not? Why can’t I just have him?”

“Like I said,” Silver replies, pushing off against the bookcase to stand to his full height, “this is a trial, McGraw. It isn’t _meant_ to be easy.” The use of his name, even if only his last name, sends James reeling. He isn’t sure if it has been happening since the loss of Thomas or since his arrival here, but his affinity with both his military title and his name have been slipping, like an old skin he is shedding. He feels less association with them by the day. To hear Silver use it feels jarring, but he’s not sure what he should offer in replacement. The man certainly hasn’t earned the right to his first name yet like Madi has, though he feels a bit of regret in giving it to her so soon.

“Besides,” Silver says, breaking him out of his reveries, “he needs to be prepared for what is in store for him, or there is the risk that he will want to return here. His ability to choose, and his voluntary _choice_ to come with you, is vital, or life will reject him, and he will wither.”

James’ breath hitches. It makes sense. And it’s a frightful truth to think of; Thomas, an empty shell in that same salon where he would once host societal and moral debates, tired of a fight he never expected to be forced to lead, wishing to return to the sweet embrace of death. If James wants to prevent it – and he wants to, desperately – then he will have to be truthful with Thomas. He will have to lay himself bare, an exposed nerve, a gaping wound, and hope Thomas won’t run the opposite direction at the gory sight of it. He will have to trust Thomas like never before.

He gives a shaky nod, stepping back once more before turning around and rushing out of the room.

* * *

“James?” Thomas asks, watching him as he stands frozen in the doorway of their chambers. “Is everything alright?”

And what a ridiculous question it is, James thinks. Nothing is alright; it hasn’t been for months. Thomas knows that. The nonsense of it breaks him from his frozen state, and he moves into the space, slow and careful, as if he’s already worried of spooking Thomas before even telling him, showing him.

“I have been talking to Madi and Silver,” he tells Thomas. “I have had to… justify my reasons for bringing you back.”

“You love me,” Thomas frowns. “I’d imagine that’s enough. It was enough for Orpheus, wasn’t it?”

“They seem to have steeled themselves against grief since then,” James replies a little stiffly. He’s still scared to get any closer, standing awkwardly in the centre of the room. “Everyone who wants to bring a loved one back does it out of love. They can’t just let all those who grieve come and lay claim to their ghosts, they’d be left with nothing. Their world would collapse.”

“The tragedy has lost its punch,” Thomas muses, wry humour in his voice. “Almost a tragedy in itself. Then what have you been offering for justification?”

James swallows. His palms are pricking again, and he hates this, hates this place, this soul-searching. He wants to fight every challenge laid before him, but has no knowledge of the weapons or technique this fight is fought with. He’s merely swinging madly in the dark, uncoordinated and afraid.

“A war,” he replies hoarsely. “The fight you and I were on our way to.”

“We were moving towards a peaceful solution to bring Nassau back to civilisation,” Thomas frowns. “The fight was over. England let us go.”

“Except they didn’t,” James reminds him, finally moving over to kneel down by the bed where Thomas sits. “They ended it.”

“And you want to pick it up again.”

“The fight has changed,” James tells him, his voice raw. “Do you think that is the pinnacle of civilisation? To govern the right to everything in every corner of the world, even love?”

He can see Thomas’ mind churning. James has just challenged everything Thomas had grown up to believe. He had always been an innately good man, but his worldview, like James’, was shaped by England. Neither of them had known anything else, had ever thought of a morality outside the Empire, certainly not of such a morality potentially having equal weight to that of England.

“I think there is an evil slumbering in civilisation,” James says then. “A spreading infection.”

Thomas shifts, then sits up. A smile spreads on his face. “An interesting theory,” he says. “Toss me my clothes?”

James frowns. “Why?”

“If we’re to debate, I’d like to not do it in the nude.”

James feels a knot loosening in his chest. He lets out a soft laugh. “Actually,” he replies, “if we’re to debate the evils of civilisation and its rules and restrictions, doing so naked might just be perfectly fitting.”

 _Perhaps not everything has to be a gruelling trial_ , he thinks as he strips and slots himself between Thomas’ legs. _Perhaps, some things can be familiar and easy_.

It’s almost like they’re back in the salon of the Hamiltons, although there are no books to surround them here, no information to be plucked off the shelves to support their claims. James cannot fall back on the wisdom of dead men bar the few things he remembers from Thomas’ education. He has to debate on his wits and instinct alone, on his observations and experiences. Thomas’ death and the complete disregard for their love stands front and centre among his arguments, but Nassau is there too, what he has witnessed of it. He brings up Tortuga too, where he had spent a few days and had drunk himself into a stupor after hearing of matelotage. The pirates they had come to civilise, support the marriage between two men; is this an argument for or against civilisation? It stands as a fact in itself, but England would show it to be the pinnacle of their darkness, while James sees it as a spark of light to be snuffed out by the Empire.

They debate for hours, talking back and forth, but it soon becomes apparent that Thomas is playing the devil’s advocate. He knows the morality the Empire imposes on its citizens more intimately, having read all the texts endorsed by the Queen, has been questioning it to a certain level for years, had to as a politician, and he throws up argument after argument for James to dissect and reveal his own truth from. It’s thrilling and a little infuriating, but it feels safe too. James feels like this is a battle he can win.

In the back of his head though, James knows he’s too comfortable. He’s talking of freedom and evils, talking of cutting himself loose from the Empire’s morals as if he is a saint with some elevated knowledge of the truth, of what is truly good, but he hasn’t told Thomas yet of how hypocritical it all is. He thinks of the boy that briefly came to haunt him, a boy whose ship he sank, and he wonders how many more there are, how many people are here because of him.

But he can only do so much at a time. So he debates with Thomas, swaying him to his side, showing him the darkness of the English, the true extent of the hurt and damage they have done, to him, to them.

He debates the strength and qualities of Thomas too, explaining the loss the world has suffered with his death. He debates about all that Thomas has left in him, all he can still do, all he might want to still do, especially with his newfound worldview. The conversations shift, from a debate to a conversation. He listens to all Thomas’ dreams and ambitions, all the things he’s ever wanted to fight for, and reminds him that he still can, and that he has it in him to win those fights. They were so close, they could do it again and win, and many more times over, now that they are no longer blind to the vindictiveness of their enemy, of the possibility of traitors among friends. With caution, with lessons learned, they will be able to accomplish more than ever before.

He also seems to have convinced Thomas that the anger always threatening to spill within him is passion, something that can be targeted, fuelled and quelled, a righteous fury. A force of potential good, rather than some dark, uncontrollable beast trying to constantly claw its way out. He’s not sure if it’s true, nor if he’s convinced himself along with Thomas. In fact, he’s rather certain Thomas is at this point alone in this conviction. When James stares at his own hands, he can still feel the blood dripping, hear the boy’s voice; _I am one of many_. He hears his own voice, dismissing a mother’s grief like it means nothing against the bright burn of his own.

He’s not a good man, he realises. Perhaps he never was. He was self-righteous, noble and naïve, but he must’ve been the subject of someone’s nightmares at every point in life. Perhaps it wasn’t his face haunting men’s dreams when he was lieutenant, but rather some faceless image of the Navy, but James was nevertheless an extension of them and their morals. He thinks back to the works Thomas read to him; Shakespeare, Homer. Some villains knew exactly of the evil in their actions, but nearly all felt justified in their choices.

He feels frustration wash over him, anger, horror and shame. The conversation dies away, and all he can do is look at Thomas, naked and open and vulnerable as he’s trying to shift his own worldview to understand James’ fury. Thomas is a good man, better than James. But, he supposes, if it is villainy to uphold the morals of a corrupt society, then perhaps Thomas was a villain too. It’s hard to imagine, nauseating even, but not impossible. But Thomas is attempting to change, attempting to learn, always trying to be better.

“What’s plaguing you?” Thomas asks, noticing his anguished silence.

“Were we bad men for glorifying those who wished us dead? For glorifying a corrupt society?”

Thomas’ face falls, and he leans in to press a kiss against James’ temple, then against his closed eyelids. “I wish I had my copy of _Dante_ ,” he mutters. “Remember his _Divine Comedy_?”

“A little,” James mutters before letting out a shaky laugh. “Part of me wishes I remembered more.”

“You do seem to be on Dante’s journey,” Thomas agrees. “Getting to know your conscience, your hells, before being led to the light and salvation by the promise of your love waiting for you.”

“Except I have no guide,” James whispers. He’s shaking again, he realises. “I’m doing this all alone.”

“On the contrary,” Thomas presses. “They may not have gone about it in pleasant ways, but Madi, Silver, the Fates… Even me. We have all pushed you, questioned you, given you clues. Are we not your guides?”

“My Beatrice,” James agrees quietly, catching Thomas’ lips with own. “My Virgil.” Though the kiss stays chaste and light, it softens him, consoling his deep and aching loneliness. It doesn’t cure him of it, but it certainly helps.

“You do remember,” Thomas smiles. “Then tell me of the first layer of Hell as Dante describes it.”

James huffs. “I feel as if I’m back in the school benches,” he huffs, and Thomas laughs.

“From what you told me, you were barely in the school benches,” he reminds James, who shrugs.

“The first layer…” he muses, thinking back to their time spent together. He vaguely remembers Thomas reading to him about evils and sins, but he also remembers only catching half of it because his ears were boxed in by Thomas’ thighs as he sucked him off. “Remind me again?”

Thomas laughs. From the glint in his eye, James can tell he remembers too. “Ignorance filled the first layer,” he says then. “Ignorance, and moreover, apathy and inaction. To go where the wind blows without taking a stand and thinking for yourself.”

“Does that mean we qualify?” James asks carefully. Thomas’ smile softens to something closer to sorrow. He hates seeing James as tormented as he is. James wonders if they are slowly becoming Hell to each other, tormenting themselves and consequently each other.

“What do you think?” Thomas asks, because of course, this is James’ trial, it must all come back to him getting to know his demons.

“I think…” he huffs in frustration. “Perhaps we weren’t evil men. And you always questioned the morality of the world – you never willingly promoted a darker morality. You chose to think. And you encouraged me to do the same. I just don’t know if I followed in your footsteps blindly, or ever carved out my own truth.”

A sudden, unexpected sob wracks through him. He has followed other men his entire life, guiding him, showing him what is good or bad. The Navy, the Queen, Thomas. As much as Thomas encouraged him to stand up for his beliefs and think for himself, James realises that he was never truly forced to be his own moral compass. Since Thomas’ death, he’s felt utterly directionless, spinning wildly, no north, no Polaris to guide him. He’s caused nothing but carnage since, and he’s still as lost as he was before he dove down to get Thomas back. Bonny was right; this is the present he has to live with.

“Dante declared awareness to be the first step to salvation,” Thomas reminds him gently. “With awareness, we can start to shape our actions towards something better.” He pulls James into a tight embrace, pressing their naked bodies together. “It was painful for him, too. But he got there, in the end.”

“He doesn’t suffer the same sins as I do,” James confesses into the nape of Thomas’ neck. “I took a step down into Ignorance, and I fell.” _Further down than I would ever want you to know_. _Past Ignorance, into wilful evil._

Thomas’ fingers card gently through his hair, and he shivers. “I don’t think this place is done exposing our demons,” he mutters, “but I won’t be the one to push you further.”

James, riddled with guilt but awash with gratitude, nods, and lets himself be held by Thomas like this for what feels, somehow, like the final time. For when Thomas learns, when Thomas sees the blood dripping from his fingers, he may never wish to touch James again.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I’m the heartbreak that aches far too much to be shunned_   
>  _All those letters unsent and that garden ungrown_   
>  _I’m the captain of courage you’ve eternally lacked_   
>  _I’m the Jesus of wishing to Christ he’ll come back_
> 
> _\- Farewell Wanderlust_ , The Amazing Devil


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And on the creature scratches, it doesn’t know how to get out (Let me out)_   
>  _And you, you follow philosophies_   
>  _But me, I laugh I choke_
> 
> _\- That Unwanted Animal_ , The Amazing Devil

One more day.

James looks down on Thomas, his sleeping form. He wonders if Thomas is truly asleep, if the dead can sleep. He wonders if Thomas can dream. He wonders. All he does is wonder.

He gets up carefully from the bed as not to rouse Thomas. If the sleep is feigned for the sake of his comfort, then so is its continuation. If Thomas is awake, he’ll know by now that James has to go, has to move, has to fight and try and try again.

He decides to try his luck with Madi again, wondering what new perspective she may hold today. He has started to fear her in a way, the way she refuses to give him hope, but then he wonders if it’s perhaps a mercy, one that Silver somehow can’t bring himself to give with his words of consideration. They are both pushing him in their own ways, and James realises by now that no matter where he’ll go, he will be challenged. He might as well change things up a bit.

It seems Madi is not in the throne room today. Polaris seems to be the only fixed star in this world, always leading to that particular space, but when James arrives there, he finds it empty. He feels a little put out, but he won’t let it stop him. Instead, he turns to the cave’s heavens again, and studies the stars. Which would Madi be?

His eyes return to Gemini, where Castor and Pollux stand together with their hands entwined. He doesn’t feel like Madi would be one of the twins, but is instead her own person. Silver contains enough complexity to represent both twins instead.

But then his eyes fall on a star that is part of the same constellation, an extension of Pollux’ leg. Alhena. Bright, with a feminine name, and far enough from the twin stars to lead him in a slightly different direction should he follow her rather than the twins’ heads. It seems fitting, so he decides to follow his instinct.

He finds Madi in the strangest space he’s seen so far down here. The starlit cavern she is in seems to be at the bottom of one of the chutes leading vertically down from the surface, but the water flowing down from the hole at the centre of the ceiling runs as quietly and calmly as a gentle creek, rather than the forceful waterfall it ought to be. The surface gently ripples, making it look for all the world like a wide cylinder of still-liquid glass, reflecting the greenish-silver glow of thousands of stars that swirl and spiral around the entrance in the domed ceiling.

Madi is on her knees, reaching into the water to harvest the weed that is gently flowing in the impossibly slow current. James watches her work, mesmerised by the hypnotic movement of the plants.

Madi looks up when she hears his footsteps, and she smiles. “Join me,” she says, and he nods, walking over to join her on his knees and carefully stick his hands into the water and tug at the seaweed. Together they work in silence, placing the green shoots in a little earthenware bowl she has placed by her side.

“How are you, James?” she asks then, and James is instantly grateful that he chose to come to her today. She has been harsh to him, but fair, giving him what he needs every time. Right now, he needs this.

“Dreadful,” he admits with a wry smile. “But I’m trying.”

“It’s harder than you think, isn’t it?” Madi says. James barks a laugh and nods.

“When the swim down nearly killed me, I thought the hardest part was over. I was wrong.”

“But you are learning every day,” Madi tells him. “You are still in the throes of the current, but you are growing stronger, James.”

James stills for a moment, shifting under her gaze. “Do you think…” God, why does he have to feel so utterly vulnerable? “Do you think I will make it?”

Madi stills too, then, but after a moment, she reaches out in the water and gently takes James’ hand.

“It is hard to say with these things,” she tells him, honest as ever. “But you fight harder than anyone. I believe you have it in you.”

He smiles, breath shaky with relief, but she hasn’t let go of his hand yet. “I need you to remember something, though,” she tells him sternly. “You will know this, as a sailor, as a swimmer, but I will remind you all the same. When the current grows too strong, sometimes you need to let it drag you along. You cannot fight it all the way.”

James swallows, then nods. Madi is right, as she often seems to be. If he keeps fighting for the rest of his life, he’ll die prematurely of fatigue, having accomplished nothing. He wonders though how the stormy currents he finds himself in this moment will look if he lets them guide him. How he can even accomplish that. He knows what the fight looks like, the struggle, the churn of the water. But right now, he’s so focused on the fight, it’s hard to imagine the bigger picture, to imagine the flow of the water, the shores it might lead him to. But he’ll try to keep Madi’s words in mind.

She lets his hand go with a squeeze, and he suddenly misses the warmth of it. He’s touched so few people other than Thomas, he feels starved of it. The gentility of the gesture, the kindness, the comfort. He thinks back to his life in England, where propriety is king. Life is all stiff backs, curtsies and nods. No wonder James was lost to love the minute Thomas’ first handshake lingered.

“Have you convinced Silver yet?” Madi asks after a few minutes of silent work. James huffs.

“He’s given me homework,” he replies bitterly.

“And you refuse to do it?”

“I’m… working on it,” he replies. “But it’s…”

“Hard, of course,” Madi laughs. “Even for himself he never makes anything easy. But what do you think? Will you be able to convince him?”

“I feel like I need to know him better,” James answers, a light frown marring his brow. “So I know just what I need to say, what he wishes to hear.”

“You remind me a little of him, you know,” Madi says then, and it startles James. “He has this incessant need to _know_ a person, especially those that interest him. He says knowledge is power, but I believe there is more to it for him than that. He doesn’t even care so much for the truth.” She smiles, absentminded for a moment, and James can see the love on her features, plain as day. “I think it’s the story that draws him in. He has a penchant for them. Learning them, telling them. And you are telling a powerful one right now, even if you don’t realise it.”

James doesn’t say anything to that, instead letting her words mull over in his mind. He’s telling a powerful story. He wonders what will win Silver over more; the strength of the narrative, or the truth of the outcome. He believes to have more power over one than the other, but really, who is he to say? Is that the current he is swimming in? The narrative of a story? Is the conclusion the shore to which it leads?

“I’ll visit him again,” he tells Madi, “in a bit, when we’re finished here.”

Madi smiles. “He’ll like that.”

James snorts at that. “Will he?” But her words sound in his head again, of Silver’s love for stories, and the story James is unknowingly telling. Madi nods.

“You bring up great conflict within him,” she tells him. “He’s drawn to you, to your story and your plight, but he will have to let you go and let the story unfold, perhaps never learning of how it ends. He both wants to give in to you and stand against you, and it tears at him.”

“I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s conflicted,” James admits, and she laughs.

“It is okay to be selfish in these things,” she says. “Another thing you have in common. Good men, moved by their occasionally overwhelming selfishness.”

James’ eyebrows shoot up at that. “I’m overwhelmingly selfish?”

“Don’t deny that you didn’t dive down here for primarily selfish reasons,” she chastises. “Again, the selfishness is acceptable, but denying your truth is not. Not in my eyes, in any case.”

James swallows, then nods. “And Silver?”

That causes Madi to smiles again. “An innately selfish man,” she says, “but when push comes to shove, he can’t help but be good.” Her expression darkens a little, then. “Most of the time, anyway.”

“I looked him in the eye a few days ago and saw darkness,” James tells her. She must have seen it, too, at some point. She seems the type of woman who sees everything.

“The amount of darkness in him sometimes makes it hard for him to surface and draw air. It is so easy for him to let himself drown in it,” she confirms. “He’s… alright, he’s more selfish than you. To call him a _good_ man may be a stretch.” The smile returns, then. “But he tries. He fights to draw breath, to not lose himself in the dark, and that wish, that fight, already makes him a better man than he once was in my eyes.”

Her gaze falls on James, who feels himself wither. She sees every insecurity, every fear he’s expressed into Thomas’ skin through mouthed kisses and murmured confessions over the past days. “By my standards, James, you too are a good man who loses himself to darkness frequently. Your fight to be better, even after months of drowning in the dark, is what makes you good. Are you a Christian?”

James lets out a shocked laugh. “I don’t really know anymore,” he admits, thinking of the world surrounding him.

“If you still choose to believe in God,” she says, “you will know the concept of salvation through penance.”

He nods shakily. He’s heard of it before, though most priests like to hammer home the brutality of penance while glossing over the beauty of salvation. “And if I no longer judge my morality by the standard of the Bible?”

“Then you will always be left wondering,” she tells him simply. “This can be good, James. But it can also be torture, if you let it.”

He will have to remember that.

* * *

Silver doesn’t seem to be in his usual place either, it seems. Instead, James finds himself winding through unfamiliar corridors, growing tired with the span of this world. Nothing is where it seems to be, where it should be. At least James is getting the exercise needed to work his way back to full strength, he supposes.

As soon as he arrives at the room Gemini points to, he knows it is Silver and Madi’s private chamber. The entrance is small but ornately decorated, with a curtain of seaweed blocking the view inside. It’s not much as far as privacy is concerned, but it’s more than most rooms get in this world.

James isn’t sure if he should go in. Perhaps it would be better if he waits for Silver to emerge, or if he tries later. But curiosity is nagging at him. He wonders what the space is like. But moreover, he wonders if Silver will be more vulnerable here. There might be an opportunity ahead; an advantage.

It is the definitive thought to push him to motion, and he quietly brushes aside the organic curtain and steps inside.

It seems the space exists of several chambers, all lit in varying levels of brightness by the breath-taking clusters of stars. Stalagmites and stalactites form elegant pillars, and there is more coral around the room to serve as decoration. The first space has several piles of pillows and silks, one laid tactically beside a well-stocked bookcase. He picks up the novel turned upside down on the top of the pile; _Dr. Faustus_. He has to suppress a snort. The book hidden underneath it intrigues him more. It is decorated with ornate golden patterns, and when he opens it, he doesn’t recognise the script. It doesn’t look like any form of lettering he’s ever seen before; each word, or what he assumes to be a word, a long horizontal baseline with upward spikes and curling waves. At least the illustrations are more recognisable; it seems constellations are similarly depicted across the Overworld.

The room splits off into two more spaces further on, altogether shaping the chambers into an inverted triskelion. To the left, James spots a space with a truly gigantic four-poster bed that Miranda would probably kill for. The posters are formed through carved stalagmite, stained a rusty red that for a split second, James can imagine stand out beautifully against the colour of both Madi’s and Silver’s skin as they might lie entangled on the sheets.

James has been so hell-bent on getting Thomas out, he hadn’t allowed himself to stand still and marvel at the place and people here. Everything has so far been a tool, an obstacle, a means to an end. But standing in the private bedroom of the king and queen, he is struck the beauty of it all. The gods seem to fit into their domain perfectly; the warm undertones of Madi’s skin reflected in the coral, the shining blue of Silver’s eyes in the stars. They seem almost intertwined with the nature of their world.

He drags his hand across his face with a groan. Madi and Silver aren’t people; they are a tool in his attempt to save Thomas. He can’t afford to see them as anything else. With trepidation and serious doubts as to if he _has_ to be in their private chambers, James finally enters the final space, which surely must contain Silver.

“Madi?” he hears, and he freezes when the sound of a soft splash sounds. “Do you mind?”

James turns slowly, apprehensive of what he might face. At the centre of the room stands a large, circular stone structure, looking as if it has been raised from the ground naturally. It dips in the centre and is filled to the brim with steaming water; a bath, shaped like a naturally occurring hot spring. The water sloshes over the edge a little as Silver holds up a small crystal vial. His back is turned to the room’s entrance.

Without the bulking dark coat, his shoulders are surprisingly broad, covered in lean, roiling muscle. Even the skin of his back is tanned a warm shade of bronze, alluding to a life under the sun that seems so far away down here, if such a life ever existed at all. His wet curls stick to his skin, midnight black and shining under the stars. Something about the sight irks James, until he realises that it’s because the man seems _more alive than Thomas_. There is a flush to a skin and a twitch in the corded muscle under his skin in a way that almost taunts James. The King of the Dead, looking alive and strong and healthy.

This is a cosmic joke, James decides. Silver should be the one in a vulnerable position here; he is literally bare and with his back turned. And yet, it is James who feels on edge, raw and ready to snap. But he can’t reveal that he isn’t who Silver expects him to be. He has an opportunity here, a chance to turn the tables and make the most of this moment. So rather than answer Silver’s apparent request to take the vial and, what – help wash his hair? He lets out a huff that he hopes sounds light enough to be Madi’s.

“Yeah, I suppose I deserve that,” Silver mutters before pouring the vial over his curls. The scent of oranges, thyme, and the sea start filling the room, a mix of smoky earth and light citrus balancing each other out, reminding James painfully of a world far above him.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” Silver says then. “But I’m…” The words come slowly, as if with great effort. For a moment, the man almost sounds small. “I’m afraid, Madi. I don’t know what to do.”

James doesn’t speak. This is exactly what he was hoping for. He wonders how long he can keep silent for without breaking the illusion that he is, in fact, not Silver’s partner.

“I fear the repercussions of him taking Thomas, the damage it’ll do,” Silver continues. “But then I equally fear the damage Thomas’ death might do.” He sighs, carefully splashing a little bit of water over his head. “I’m meant to keep balance, Madi, but what if Thomas’ death has thrown the Overworld off-balance? Or is it none of my concern? Is down here the only balance I should care about? Am I… am I responsible for more? Should I be? How much do I owe the living?” He huffs, shaking his head. A few soapy suds roll down the edge of the tub. “I don’t even know what I want to be, let alone what I am,” he mutters.

The words nail James to the floor. There’s something incredibly fundamental about the words that he can’t help but recognise himself in. Luckily however, Silver doesn’t seem to expect an answer.

After a moment of contemplation, the man suddenly reaches to place the now empty vial down on the stone floor, and James hastens to remain outside his field of vision. But Silver lets out a snarl, and his heart stops.

Except Silver isn’t looking at him. His head is thrown back and his hands plunged into the water, clutching for what has to be his leg. With an almost inhuman noise he pulls the limb out of the water and hooks it over the edge of the tub, leaving the stump in full view for James to see.

James thinks back to how Silver has been favouring his healthy leg lately. He sees now why. It’s not just late nights and stress over the situation leading to exhaustion. It’s his stump, looking a fierce and angry red, leaking some kind of fluid that tinges the droplets of water clinging to his skin a creamy pink. It looks _beyond_ painful; he wonders how Silver even manages to go about his day without showing a sign of weakness.

He must have made a noise then, for suddenly, the man’s eyes are on him, wide with unbridled fury and just a hint of raw, vulnerable hurt. Within a split second however, that openness is gone, leaving nothing but darkness.

“Get out,” Silver snarls.

“I – I didn’t…” James tries, but what could he say? He didn’t mean to watch Silver in a moment of raw, literally naked vulnerability, coaxing honesties from his mouth? Because he did. So, for once in his life, he does the right thing – he runs.

He finds himself countless corridors further, panting as he collapses against the stone wall. The image of Silver, King of Dead Sailors, naked and vulnerable in his tub with his stump seeping pus into the water is branded into the back of his eyelids. The fury, the shock. The brief moments before, where he’d opened himself up verbally and physically in a way that still felt laborious, even though he thought he’d been talking to Madi. A way that betrayed wariness and pain and hesitation that must have taken years for his partner to weather down. Something James just stood there and witnessed and took from him, perhaps undoing centuries of emotional work.

“Fuck,” he spits, trying and failing not to panic. “Fuck, fucking idiot, _God_ …”

This is _not_ the time to suddenly be crippled by guilt and have conflicted sentiments for a man he’ll leave behind for good in less than twenty-four hours, a man who stands in the way of James bringing his lover back to life.

He lets out a hysterical little laugh. Except, now is _exactly_ the time this would happen to him. Self-destruction is ingrained into James’ system; in some twisted way, it’s only natural that the closer he gets to leaving, the more ways he finds to make his life more difficult.

The image of Silver’s hurt at being tricked and exposed swims before him again, and James can’t seem to shake the feeling that it had been like looking into a mirror. That same uncertainty as to who he is, who he wants to be, where he stands in the world. The same pain at being laid bare. And more terrifyingly, a darkness that he has become more and more aware of within himself as well. There had been a moment in Silver’s office where he had felt a spark of fear for the man; now, he suspects the fear might have come from unwilling recognition, and a knowledge of what potential that darkness carries.

“Fuck it,” he mutters as he pushes himself off against the wall to get back on his feet. If he’s in a self-destructive mood, he might as well go all-in. He still has one thing left to do, one last test Silver threw in his path. It’s time to face that darkness.

“Kid,” he calls out as he strides down the corridors, and the boy from a few days ago appears swiftly by his side. “Spread the word.”

“Where you heading?” the boy asks as he tries his best to keep up. “What’s the word, who do you need?”

“I’m heading for the throne room,” James grits, “and I need the many.”

The boy stares at him for a moment before breaking into a mirthless grin. “I’ll arrange it.”

James nods curtly, striding on to go and wake Thomas.

He needn’t bother; Thomas is lying on the bed with a random book James hasn’t seen before. “Up,” he commands him, and Thomas’ eyes widen.

James has rarely addressed him like this, only commanding when it’s requested in bed, playing the proud lieutenant in one of their many games. But it’s clear Thomas knows this is no game, and he quickly slips off the bed and hastily puts on his clothes.

James barely looks back once Thomas follows him. He physically can’t, can’t bear to look at him, knowing what he’s about to do. Thomas luckily knows better than to ask him to slow down, instead silently doing his best to keep up with James’ strides.

They finally make it to the throne room. It’s empty bar one figure, as James thought it might be, and he laughs mirthlessly. The kid looks at him with a dark hunger in his eyes, revelling in the fear and turmoil churning within James.

James makes his way to the centre of the large space, uncaringly climbing the elevation to the throne. He steps onto it, one foot on the seat, the other propped up on an armrest while he holds on to the backrest. Thomas stares at him, bewilderment, admiration – such misplaced admiration – and fear all mixed in his expression.

“I’ve changed,” James tells Thomas, a little breathless. Thomas’ gaze flicks to the boy, then back to James, bewilderment deepening. “Since you died, I’ve changed. And you can’t come back unless you choose to. But to choose, fairly, knowingly, you need to see. See who I’ve become.”

Behind Thomas, the Fates silently trickle into the room. James meets Rackham’s gaze, who gives a small nod of encouragement.

“It’s been just over two months since Thomas died,” James calls out, his voice echoing around the empty space. “But before he did, I was a lieutenant of the Royal British Navy. I was in the Navy for _decades_.” He looks around, jutting out his chin. “Those who died directly by my hand in that time, please show yourselves.”

“James –” Thomas tries, but he falls silent when about thirty boys and men appear, smoke swirling into solid masses. James swallows heavily, feeling their gazes on him.

“Those who died indirectly, not by my hand but through my command – whether you were casualties on my ship or on those I ordered to move against,” he continues. “Show yourselves.”

“ _James_ ,” Thomas pleads, pain etched into his face, but James won’t look at him, chooses instead to focus his gaze on the unwavering expressions of the Fates. There is no judgement between them, only knowing apathy and grim encouragement. Around them, more men appear. It’s far harder to estimate the numbers this time, but James knows in the back of his head the ships he’s sunk, their approximate crew sizes. He remembers every victory that carried him up the career ladder, the memories once coloured with pride but now tainted. He’d wager there are a solid eight hundred men around them, and he lets out a shaky breath.

“It’s been two months,” he speaks, and though his words are quiet, they still ring clear against the cave’s vaulted ceiling and around the space. He can see Thomas’ face among the crowd, and the boy’s face, radiant with dark satisfaction. His upper lip curls, baring his teeth as his next words come.

“Show yourself to me now, those who I have killed – directly or indirectly – since then.”

Redcoats appear, as well as simple sailors, pirates. Men of all statures, of all ages. Women, too. He recognises more than he’d care for, some from the rage-fuelled revenge trips against those that took Thomas from him, others because even the most anonymous person he cut down haunts his dreams at times.

The crowd has nearly doubled.

“My numbers in over fifteen years of service, matched in two months of senseless slaughter,” he spits, and when his eyes finally meet Thomas’, he has to blink away the tears. He will not cry, not before these men. “This is who I am now. I feel their blood on my hands every day, Thomas. I did it in your name, I did it in my own, under false names and monstrous pretences. But it was all me. _All of this came from my hand._ ”

Thomas is dumbstruck, and for the first time in all the time James has known him, has loved him, the man looks at him with nothing but naked fear, and a hint of something James suspects is dark revulsion.

“I lost so much the day I lost you,” he tells him. “Not least of which my soul. I am a shell. I am angry, and I wish for nothing more to go back to the way things were, but life, morality, death, has all become infinitely more complicated than that.”

“You spoke of righteousness,” Thomas whispers, his voice carrying over the quiet dead. “Of morals. _Justice_.”

“This was not what I was speaking of,” James retorts, pressing, pleading. “I try every day to reconcile myself with the destruction I have left in my wake, hoping I can be better with you by my side. Hoping that the war I wish to start will set right the wrongs I have done.”

He lets out a shaky huff of laughter. “But I have no right to ask of you to fix me, to come with me to set me right again. You needed to know who you are coming home with, if you decide to do so. I want you to do this, for me of course,” another shaky laugh, “because by _God_ , I am a selfish man. But I want you to remember the dreams you still had. The ambitions not yet reached, the fire in your gut you’ve had all your life. The bright, the sun, the daylight. I might be a… _monster_ , but the Empire is still rotten, and my fight against them stands on solid ground, I am certain of this.

“I want you to think of Miranda. Of her pain as I tore through the men that took you from us. I want you to think of a world waiting for you, wanting you, hating you, needing you.

“And finally, again, think of yourself. Of who you were, what you wanted, what I know after last night you still want.”

He steps off the throne, and the crowds part before him as if he were Moses and they the sea. Considering how red the water runs around James these days, it’s an apt comparison.

“You don’t have to be with me, or by my side, or even ever see me again,” he whispers when he stands before Thomas again. He doesn’t dare reach out, knows the wrong thing to do right now is touch him. “Just come back.”

There are an aching few seconds where Thomas remains silent, but then he takes the smallest step back. “I need time,” he says quietly. “I need to process this.” He finally turns around and leaves the chamber.

James feels as if all air has left him, and he crumbles to his knees, no longer caring about looking weak in front of all the people whose lives he took. _Let them revel in it_ , he thinks. He has been torn to shreds, stood in front of the cannon and lit the fuse himself.

A hand lands on his shoulder, carefully squeezing him, and when he looks up, Rackham and Vane stand on each side of him, ready to help him up. He leans heavily on them both as they head for the exit, but truthfully, he doesn’t know where they’d go. Behind him, the crowds remain, standing to watch him silently as he leaves.

They find a small little cavern that is partially submerged, tucked away in an outer corner of the world, where the Fates help lower him down. Bonny takes off his boots for him, and with a shaky exhale, he lets his feet sink into the cool and soothing water. He lets out a shuddering breath, and starts to laugh. He’s wheezing with it, struggling for breath as he falls backwards onto the stone floor, tears streaming down his face.

He’s unsure how much time has passed when a familiar voice sounds behind him.

“Dear God, I don’t think I have ever met a man who _feels_ as strongly as you do,” Silver says. When James looks up, he realises the Fates have gone, and it’s just the two of them.

“So you’re comfortable enough to stand in my presence again?” James snorts, too tired to see anything else but humour in it all anymore. Silver moves closer, sinking down against the wall on James’ right to look at him. His bad leg, peg and all, is stretched out before him, while he lets his fingers absentmindedly run through the water James’ feet are soaking in. His mouth curls upwards.

“I am not above admitting I get some grim satisfaction from seeing you like this,” he says with a little incline of his head. Though he speaks with an air of ease, James can tell it’s not real. The man has his walls raised sky-high, a hint of caution and calculation in his eyes. If he ever trusted James or felt complacent around him, he certainly doesn’t anymore.

“You and every other person down here,” James retorts bitterly.

“Now, I’m sure that’s not true,” Silver tells him faux-sternly. “Madi doesn’t enjoy seeing you suffer, despite what it may look like at times.” He lets out a chuckle, then sighs. “When Jack came running to tell me that we’d broken you, I simply had to see for myself. But this was all you, wasn’t it?”

James is silent for a moment, letting the words wash over him. In truth, he’s been broken for so long, it was only a matter of time before the pieces came crashing down. Silver is right; though everyone down here pushed him in this direction, in the end it was James himself who swung the sledgehammer and delivered the killing blow.

“I did what you asked,” he says quietly. “I bared myself to Thomas.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.” He swallows thickly. “I don’t know if he’ll want to join me. He doesn’t seem to know either. I don’t think he ever knew, not from the moment I arrived.”

“You can only hope.”

“Go fuck yourself,” James spits. “Don’t talk to me about hope.” He moves a hand through the water and splashes Silver with it, who lets out a startled noise. For a second, the man is caught off-guard, and if James is right, it frightens him a little. It seems that even now, the man underestimates James.

“When I went to see the sight in the throne room,” he says as he wipes the water from his beard, “I heard some of the men there utter a name.”

James feels his mouth dry. “A name?”

“Flint,” Silver muses, watching James closely. “One of the false names you carried in your slaughter of them. It’s who you are becoming, isn’t it?”

“Flint is a story,” James mutters, and Silver nods.

“He’s becoming your story,” he says. “If it’s any consolation, it suits you. Harder than steel and sharper than glass. Dark and cutting.”

James says nothing. Silver studies him for a moment in silence, then asks: “Do you have objections to me calling you such?”

He realises that he, in fact, doesn’t mind at all. He’s felt alienated from his real name for a while now, and realises that Flint, a name he adopted once he reached the West Indies, is in fact who he has been becoming ever since losing Thomas. It may not be who he wants to be, but it is who he is, and it feels right to be called by the new name. He never thought of the connotations of personality, only of a story once told to him years ago, but he supposes it’s fitting.

He gives Silver an acquiescing nod, then turns his face up to stare at the ceiling. This room has little to no stars, and for once, he’s grateful for the dark.

“When you’re ready,” Silver tells him, “call for Madi, or one of the Fates. They will lead you back to where you arrived a week ago. I’ll make sure Thomas is there too.”

A pit opens in James’ stomach. _It’s nearly time_ , he thinks and dread creeps up on him. He doesn’t want to go yet, wants more time, needs more time, isn’t ready to face the music. But he has to, he supposes.

He lies there for a while longer, feeling the occasional small fish brush up against his feet in the water. He’s giving Thomas more time to process what he knows, but he’s also putting off the inevitable. For once, he thinks it’s probably a good thing.

When his feet have pruned, the skin pale, soft and wrinkled like the day he arrived, he finally pulls them from the water. Moving has never been harder. He’s not entirely sure what awaits him, but he knows that even now, it won’t be easy.

At his call, Vane appears. The man is unpleasant, but he doesn’t judge, doesn’t sneer, and certainly doesn’t look at him with pity. They walk in curt silence, navigating the snaking passages one final time. James feels as if he’s being led to the gallows.

Silver is waiting for him, along with Madi and the two other Fates. Behind them, by the edge of the water, stands Thomas. When James studies him, he notices the manacles of seaweed are still glittering ghostly in the starlight. _Fuck_.

“I did what you asked,” he tells Silver hoarsely. “I fulfilled your trials, flayed myself raw for him, for you. What more do you want? What more could you _possibly fucking want_!?”

There is a flash of emotion in Silver’s gaze, turbulent with conflict. James thinks back to Silver’s confessions, given to him in a moment of deception. He realises that even now, the King needs one final time convincing.

“You told me you worried about the balance of this world,” he says, and Silver’s nostrils flare at the blatant acknowledgement of a moment of confidence that was never meant for him. James ignores it. “About what is right, and where your responsibilities lie. All I’ve campaigned for is a war in the Overworld, morals that don’t touch the world of the dead. Why should you be invested?” He looks around at the structures surrounding him, the dripping pillars of sandstone, the stars, the alien-looking insects skittering across the walls.

“This world is a fiction,” he realises softly. “Conjured by sailors, frightened of the deep. Sailors who long for a place of peace to embrace them when they inevitably sink to the bottom of the sea, far away from the eyes of their God. I know, because I was one of them. I have felt their fear, and dreamt of a haven in the deep.”

He looks up at Silver, who looks so conflicted, it almost hurts. “You, you and this place, are a myth, a dream, created by men in a place far from civilisation, under a wide, open sky that speaks to any fantasy.” His jaw set, he knows now what angle to pursue, what story to tell.

“The Empire wishes to colonise it. To stamp out dreams and replace them with reason. Create a place without superstition, where Queen Anne’s word governs. And when they do, when they win, when they have named every wave and crevice and installed rigid law where there should be _freedom_ … This place will collapse, and die, along with the dreams of men. A god only has power as long as he’s prayed to, and when faith is replaced with reason, you will cease to exist.”

Silver’s chest is heaving, James realises. Madi carefully takes the man’s hand, squeezing it to wake him from his reveries. He gives a shaky nod.

“Alright,” he croaks. “Alright.”

James feels dizzy with relief. He’s done it. He’s won the fight; he’s won against Death. When he turns around to face Thomas, he’s met with a smile full of apprehension, fragile and uncertain.

“I have faith in your cause,” Silver’s voice sounds, and James wants to crumble, wants to throw his fucking rock, lash out, stop him from speaking. “And I think you do, too. But you highlighted your need for Thomas.”

James closes his eyes in defeat.

“I know you have the drive to engage in this war,” Silver tells him. “But I need you to trust in Thomas, too.”

It’s a cosmic joke. _Trust_. He wants to laugh, he nearly does; a week ago, he glorified the memory of Thomas, knew – or perhaps just thought – the two of them would do anything for each other. Now, in the gloom of the dark cave, he stands bare before the crowd, before Thomas, his sins staining him like the thousands of freckles on his skin, for all – for Thomas – to see. _Know no shame_ , the man had told him once, but he didn’t mean this. Never this.

James no longer knows for certain how far Thomas will go for him, if Thomas trusts him anymore, and can therefore no longer know whether he can trust Thomas in turn.

“You need to trust him,” Silver tells him like he has no fucking clue of the weight of his words, but he knows, of course he knows.

“How – how do I show it?” _What is my final trial? Tell me, so I can get it over with._

“Trust him to follow you,” Silver said, and James’ stomach drops. “All the way to the surface. Once you draw breath together, you can know with comfort and confidence that he is back, and he is yours.

“Do not call out for him,” he continues. “The air pockets are tight and carry only a limited amount. He will be far enough behind you so he doesn’t have to wait for you to catch your breath until it’s his turn in the confined space. Don’t look back, don’t reach back, don’t hold your foot out for him to grab. He’ll know the way. If you try to contort yourself to look behind you, you will get stuck, and you will drown.”

James closes his eyes. He lets out a shuddering breath and nods.

“Can you do this?”

“I have to,” he replies, his voice raw. “My last trial.”

“Yes.”

He turns around and makes his way over to Thomas. He’s still terrified to touch him, so instead he stands awkwardly before him. “Are you ready?” he asks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Thomas replies, a wary smile tugging at his lips. “Any tips?”

James lets out a shaky laugh. “It’s easier to do when you’re not wearing clothes.”

Thomas laughs too at that, and for a moment, it’s a mocking replica of times past, when they could laugh together until there was no air left between them. Now, everything is sad, brittle and weak.

They strip together, slowly and methodically, not paying attention to their small audience, who don’t seem particularly perturbed by the sight. There is nothing intimate about the moment. When they finally stand naked in front of the king and queen, it is Madi who breaks the silence.

“Whatever happens,” she tells him, “I’m proud of you.”

He nods stiffly. _No looking back_ , he thinks. He turns, takes a deep breath, and wades into the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I’ll smile as I climb the stairs (to the light)_   
>  _To the light that you keep burning there (all hell)_   
>  _And our muscles that are waltzing and our shadows that are bold sing_   
>  _Come rip up the flesh of my fears_
> 
> _\- King_ , The Amazing Devil


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _My fall makes no sound here_   
>  _Don’t turn around dear_   
>  _Don’t turn_
> 
> _\- Pruning Shears_ , The Amazing Devil

James didn’t realise how pressing the silence was the last time.

All he can hear is his own heartbeat, becoming more insistent the closer he is to running out of air. Every time he surfaces to gasp another lungful of it, he is mindful of Thomas, swimming who knows how far behind him. He feels an urge to keep moving, give Thomas the space to breathe if he needs to, to not let the man catch up with him to get held up below.

There is no respite from his intrusive thoughts. He imagines Thomas too weak to go on, being the weaker swimmer between them. He imagines Thomas getting stuck, or drowning mere inches behind James, clawing at his ankles. He imagines that Thomas changed his mind and never followed him in the first place.

It’s torture, and it plays over and over and over again.

When he reaches the first large cavern with some dry land, he drags himself up on the embankment in the dark. He won’t be able to see Thomas emerge, but maybe he’ll hear it.

He falls asleep before any sound reaches him.

* * *

He wakes up feeling disoriented and barely rested, a feeling that should be familiar by now, but torments him all the same. He nearly calls out for Thomas, but he remembers Silver’s warning just in time. So rather than bear the torturous thought to stand there without any sign of Thomas being beside him, behind him, anywhere hear him, he dives back into the water, cutting off his own air before he can cry out his lover’s name.

He barely remembers having slept, the moment of unconsciousness like a blip in his mind. There were no dreams to torment him in his sleep, but now that he’s awake, the nightmares seem to crash over him, wave after wave hitting him. The way before him is pitch black, and yet he can see the images vividly. He sees the air rushing from Thomas’ lungs in clouds of bubbles. He sees him floating in the water, face-down, surrounded by a cloud of red. He sees himself swimming, not through water but through blood, thick like syrup. All the while, all he hears is the dull throb of his heartbeat in his ears.

Miranda’s face appears too, sneering at his foolishness, disgusted at the blood dripping off him, _he can’t get dry_. He sees her, frightened of the black-eyed monster standing before her. He sees the Navy put a bullet through her skull. He sees her dripping with water, seaweed tumbling from her mouth as she tries to speak. He sees her roaming Silver’s world, lost in the dark as she is blind to the patterns of the stars.

At one point, James nearly calls out to her, but as he opens his mouth, precious air escapes his mouth. He’d forgotten somehow that he is submerged, that breaths ought to be taken regularly in a world above the surface and aren’t readily available whenever he feels like trying next. Panicking, he thrashes, reaching out almost as if to capture the bubbles. He is lost all of a sudden. There is no up or down; just an endless tunnel of darkness, squeezing at him from all sides.

But he kicks and scrambles, and somehow he manages to pull himself forward and what he assumes is upward until his face breaches the surface of the water. He takes in great, deep gulps of air, hysteric sobs wracking through him.

Returning to the surface is infinitely worse than diving down. On his way down, he had a purpose, a drive, even if it might be folly. Now, all he can do is hope that this isn’t all a fever dream. In the dark, there is no purpose, no drive other than _maybe, if you’re patient and have faith, Thomas_ might _be behind you_. But the longer he swims, the more tired he gets, the more he starts to believe that he cracked a long time ago and must have been thrown into a cell in Bedlam, drugged to the gills with opiates until he could only dream of painfully bright beaches steeped in blood and muddy caves lit by stars.

But he can’t linger, nor can he use up the air, so he forces himself to calm. He needs to get back, needs to see Miranda again, needs to hear Thomas surface by his side, hear him breathe for the first time in months. So he closes his eyes, for all the difference it makes, and forces his breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. Once he has calmed, he submerges, and the horrors begin anew.

James swims for hours. It’s what his life has become; the methodical movement of arms and legs, changed up by the occasional need to drag himself forward through narrow passages. He rests in the larger caverns in some misguided attempt to regain his strength, but it makes little to no difference. He can feel his strength sapping like it did on the way down, perhaps faster even. A week could never have been enough time to recover from the trauma he put his body through on the first time, and to add to the lingering exhaustion of his last trip, he’s going up instead of down, too. The way back almost seems designed to be harder. His final trial.

As a respite from the nightmares, he tries to conjure up the stories Thomas read to him. The one returning to him with the most clarity is that of Dante’s _Divine Comedy_. The man had lost everything he had, his entire sense of self, his moral compass. He’d gone on a gruelling journey through the representation of life’s moral repercussions in the Afterlife, guided by philosophers, poets, and the love of his life, Beatrice.

He smiles at the name, and it’s the first time he has smiled in days. _Beatrice_. He has no doubt she was to Dante what Thomas is to him. A beacon of hope, a promise of redemption, the North Star to his moral compass. But where Thomas goes beyond Beatrice is the ability to guide not just Dante, or in this case James, but the rest of the world, too. He has that capability, can light up the night to steer whole Empires in a better direction.

Now, here in the dark, it is James leading the way for Thomas. He will lead him back to the world above, to a society that sorely needs him, to a life he craves. To his wife, Miranda. To breathing, to touching, to feeling everything as brightly as the heat of the sun and revel in it.

He swims for Thomas. He swims for Miranda. He swims for justice, for bloody revenge, for bitter revolution. He swims so he can see his lovers smile again, and so he can watch England burn. He imagines that is what he feels in his chest, each time he starts to run out of air; the burning of London, of the Queen’s fleets, the shattering of china and the tearing of lace. He imagines the melting of shackles. If his mind insists on dreaming of blood, he will imagine it to be the blood of the enemy, and he will revel in the dark.

* * *

If James has counted right, he has reached the last cavern he can rest in before reaching the surface. He is starving and weak, colourful spots dancing on his retina in the dark. Hesitantly, he drinks some of the water he’s been swimming in, and his stomach cramps so violently that he nearly throws it back up again. It isn’t a sensation he could ever dream up, he imagines, so there is some comfort in that at least.

For once, the sleep won’t quite come; perhaps it’s the anxiety skittering under his skin right in his lower abdomen, twitching and contracting and reaching out with long, thin fingers to squeeze his throat shut at the thought that he’s nearly there. He’s so close to touching Thomas again, holding him in his arms. To seeing Miranda again. He knows he’s in for a right thrashing from her, but he finds himself smiling at the thought. During his time in the Underworld, James has sorely missed Miranda’s strength, her pride, her grace and her care. Dealing with his trials was infinitely harder without her by his side.

The thought of her waiting for him and Thomas is what finally calms him down, and when he falls asleep, this time he does dream; he dreams of a warm body and an achingly kind embrace.

* * *

Waking up is harder than it was the last time. The nerves and paranoia kept James’ sleep light, but he somehow can’t seem to drag himself back to full wakefulness, stuck in the dregs of a dream. The memory of colour swirls in his mind like dust in a whirlwind on a hot summer afternoon, mixing the rich hues of Madi’s skin with the rust of the stalagmites, the pale yellow of her shirt with Thomas’ hair. Thomas’ smile fades into Miranda’s, and the blue of her dress shifts to the stormy blue of Silver’s eyes. Silver’s curls smooth out to form Vane’s partly braided hair, the bronze of his torso fading into the worn leather of Bonny’s hat. The copper of her hair is reflected all over Rackham’s colourful outfit, and the hundred other colours woven into his calico coat explode into a storm of fabric, landing heavy on James in a giant blanket, pressing him down, suffocating him until he feels like he’s below the waves, weightless and without air. The burning of London consumes his chest, and with a rattling cough he finally draws breath and opens his eyes.

James stays there, on the floor of the cave, struggling to breathe for what feels like an eternity. It is so much harder each time he panics to find peace within himself, to find the strength to control himself and continue on his journey. But he’s nearly done. He is so close. Surely, _surely_ , he can do this. He can finish this.

So he finally slips back into the water, feeling a little sick with how it feels against his water-laden skin. But he puts it out of his mind, and dives back under.

He isn’t sure how much time passes, what with the nightmares and the monotonous struggle, but at some point he realises that the passageways are starting to widen. His heart skips a beat, and it saps at the precious little amount of air he still manages to hold in his chest. But his excitement is warranted; the darkness is slowly, almost unnoticeably, fading into light.

He speeds up his strokes, though his limbs burn with the effort. The temptation to look behind him, to search for a shadow in the brightening dark, is almost unbearable. But he just about manages to stay focused and aim for the light. That is his goal; the sunlight far above him.

Suddenly, the space widens around him, forming the bottom of a deep basin. He is in the mouth of the cenote, he realises, surrounded by the bones of the ancient indigenous dead, and high above him he can spot the skylight, lush and green from the jungle spilling over the edge. He scrambles and kicks, letting the imagined fires of London fuel him as he reaches for the sun.

And then, he breaches the surface.

He isn’t sure if what he feels is water streaming down from his hair or tears staining his face, but he takes in big lungfuls of air, the sound echoing against the wall of the cenote and mixing with the delightful, lively sounds of insects, frogs, birds and bats. It is music to his ears, but there is one other sound he’s waiting for.

The sound of Thomas breaching, and breathing in his newly-won life.

James is terrified to swim to the bank, scared he will accidentally look back or be too tempted to stare out into the water if he can sit on dry land. So he relaxes his body and lets himself drift on the surface, feeling the warmth of the jungle above seep down into the cavern.

It’s nearly impossible to stay relaxed enough to stay afloat. As exhausted as he is, his body still tenses constantly, ears straining to hear a sound, a sign, _anything_ to signify that Thomas is close. James has no idea how large the head start is that Silver gave him, has no idea how far behind Thomas might be, if he’s even behind him at all. Thomas might never have followed him. He might never have made it.

But he needs to trust Thomas’ dedication, his spirit. He knows Thomas well, knows the man would walk through fire to achieve his goals. What are a few days of swimming through submerged caves?

But the moment stretches, and the sounds of life all around him start to grate on James. His nerves are frayed, his spirit shot. He needs this to be over.

Silver had told him to wait until he surfaced. Until they had drawn breath together. James has made it to the surface; isn’t that enough? Can that be enough?

He knows it isn’t. It is meant to be hard, and by _God_ , it is hard. So he waits. He waits for a sign, for a change. But all that happens is the shifting of the light above him, the subtle changes in which animals sing at what time of the day. He closes his eyes, the light too bright, and wishes all the creatures would die, the wind would die, the water would still, just so he could hear with perfect clarity the one sound he is waiting for.

Something brushes against him, then, and his eyes shoot open. His body sinks, but he just manages to keep his head above the water. He frantically looks around, searching for what caused the sensation, and sees that the sediment from the bottom of the cenote has been disturbed, turning the surface of the water around him a light, coppery brown. His mouth opens, the words half-formed on his lips, when his gaze drops down to look below the surface.

There, through the sediment, he can make out the form of Thomas, reaching up to him, hope, love and desperation etched on his face.

And further behind, deep in the shadows below, he can make out the blue of Silver’s eyes. When their gazes meet, there is a moment where Silver’s jaw slacks, and his eyes grow immeasurably sad.

Thomas is a mere few moments from breaching the surface, and James has lost.

He watches with numb, growing horror as Silver mouths, _I am so sorry_. As Thomas’ eyes grow wide when the seaweed, nearly slipped off his wrists and ankles, tighten, reaching up to envelop the rest of his limbs, snake up his torso, all the way to hook into his mouth. As Thomas thrashes, seems to scream, lips forming _James_. As he is dragged back down into the depths, until there is nothing left but the disturbed sediment, swirling up in lazy clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You’re the one who told me to never look back_   
>  _Well I’m looking back and looking back_   
>  _And looking back and looking back at you_
> 
> _\- Shower Day_ , The Amazing Devil


End file.
